


The Meaning of Dandelions

by Endrina



Series: The secret language of plants [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ADHD Character, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bilingual Draco, M/M, Socialism, Weasley twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 72,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9476138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endrina/pseuds/Endrina
Summary: The stupid hat was stupid and refused to help Harry. The whole school and its division in houses was stupid too, and the teachers.Harry was in Hogwarts, but he didn't want to be. He wanted to go back home.





	1. The first year

**Author's Note:**

> General warnings for typical nastiness of the wizarding world. Emotional and physical abuse in a domestic setting. Other warnings in each chapter.  
> Part of a long series, updates weekly.

The Sorting Hat had enjoyed self-awareness for hundreds of years now. If there is something that time gives, other than a certain polish to leather, is perspective. Thus, it wouldn’t say that this was unheard of. The Sorting Hat had seen pretty much everything. But it would say that this year stood out, nevertheless, if only for the sheer number of oddities.

First there was the Ravenclaw girl who somehow had a Gryffindor spirit under all that thirst for knowledge. Here was a girl who wouldn’t be afraid to uncover secrets and so the Sorting Hat sent her to Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat was good at unravelling these kinds of puzzles when a child had so many traits. But still, it was an interesting combination this one.

Then there was the boy who shyly requested Hufflepuff. Nothing wrong with the house, of course, and the lad looked comfortable with work. But there was something about him (starting with the fact that he made a request instead of waiting quietly like everyone else) that made the Sorting Hat wonder if he wouldn’t be better in Gryffindor where he could let that spark grow in to a fire.

And the boy said no, no, Hufflepuff please.

The boy actually fought his decision and refused to see how that, precisely, was a very Gryffindor trait.

Again, nothing the Sorting Hat hasn’t seen before. But remarkable, nevertheless. Two oddities in one year.

Then, the usual. The turmoil of Slytherin minds, always veering left, always looking for a different path, and that compulsion to poke at things and look underneath. The taste of ether in Ravenclaw minds and a faint smell of ozone. The solid warmth of Hufflepuffs, made of iron and wood. A couple more Gryffindors, one sparky and smelling of gunpowder and blood and feet planted solidly between the people running away and the ones that came forward. The other had a mind so open you could fill it with a hundred worlds and still have room for a thousand more. The mind had a border of solid steel that would protect it from any attempt to make it small.

And now came The Boy. Even though the Sorting Hat spent the whole year quietly sleeping on a shelf in the Headmaster’s office, it knew that name when he was called to the stool.

Galloping Gargolies, that poor kid’s mind!

There was that silver circle of funny ideas that screamed Slytherin loud and clear. Inside, something soft and earth-like told of a kindness often seen in Hufflepuff. Again, not the first time. But _very_ rare combination.

“ _Can I be excused?_ ”

“ _I am sorry, what?_ ”

“ _I don’t want to be here. Can’t you just send me back? Please._ ”

All right. ALL right. Aaaall right. This was also not new for the Sorting Hat. Kids wishing to go back. Usually muggle kids and usually during stormy periods of time. But the Sorting Hat had seen it before.

Perhaps not a Hufflepuff core with a Slytherin ring asking to go back, no. But the isolated parts, that it had seen.

So of course the Sorting Hat took a closer look. It saw that the soft earth used to be warm, used to be protected by something like a fire. The Sorting Hat could see the shadows of the flames, and it could see that it has been doused off recently. Killed.

Perhaps Hufflepuff would be a good choice. Somewhere soft and welcoming.

“ _Just say that I am not a wizard. I promise I won’t make any magic. Please._ ”

“ _My dear boy. What would you even do?_ ”

Oh.

Oh, it saw it now.

The fire was gone. Extinguished. But something remained. A tiny nest of embers inside the earth. And in its core, a diamond, sharp and hard and unbreakable. A tiny thing, the size of a tear, inside some embers and ashes that were about to blow out, in the soft mound of earth surrounded by a lone and limp Slytherin silver ring. The embers would vanish but the diamond would remain.

“Gryffindor” the Sorting Hat said.

***

The stupid hat was stupid and refused to help Harry. The whole school and its division in houses was stupid too, and the teachers.

Harry had been so sure that someone would see it was all a mistake and he would be sent back. That was stupid, too.

He hated it all.

It would have been easier if people just left him alone. But they kept coming to him. Harry was losing his name. He was not Harry anymore, he was Harry Potter The Boy Who Lived or Harry Potter the Boy Who Was Lost and Now Found. He had lost all semblance of personal space as people kept taking his hand to shake and the adults brushed his hair away to look at the scar.

Harry had seen a video in school about adults invading personal space and what not. If things got too bad, you were supposed to scream “Help! Help! He is not my dad!” and kick the stranger in the ankles and run. He had done all that, but all he had got was a lecture and more patronizing comments about his supposed confusion.

Everyone seemed to know better than him.

“No” said Harry. “Because I didn’t want to come here.” “I just didn’t.” “No, I don’t think being a wizard is that great.” “And how would you know?” “Well, that’s stupid.” “No, I didn’t say you are stupid but I could say it now.” “No, that’s not true.” “No.” “No.” “No. Remus never did that.” “I don’t care what the newspaper says. This is what _I_ say.” “That’s made up.” “It was not like that at all.”

Harry would never be as tired and lonely in his life as he was right now, in the Great Hall surrounded by hundredths of people.

With exhaustion came anger.

“Shut up.” “What do you know?” “Don’t say that.” “You know nothing, don’t call him that.” “No!” “No, I am not!” “No, he was not.” “I don’t _care_ what you read, I don’t _care_ what your stupid mum says.” “I _said_ don’t call him that.”

“Don’t. Call. Him. That.”

***

Madam Pomfrey wetted some more cotton with alcohol to dab at another cut. The fight seemed to had become a full brawl that took all over the bedroom, the stairs and the common room and inflicted numerous collateral damages.

Minerva was looking at the boys. Potter didn’t seem sorry and Madam Pomfrey didn’t know what to think because the other fighting boy was Ronald Weasley. They had all been so happy with the Weasley kids. William, of course, had been a darling, and so was Charles with his sweet nature, and she had no complaints at all about Percival. The two eldest had been prefects, of course, and Percy had just become one, too.

Then the twins had arrived, and well. They were not like their brothers, were they?

Minerva was towering over the boys, furious, proclaiming she had never seen behaviour quite like this, which was mostly true if only because of the early date of the transgression.

“… never! In all my years! Where is the house spirit, I wonder? Such fighting and with a fellow Gryffindor! …”

The lecture went on for quite a while. Considering Pomfrey had had to attend to the three other first year students because they had been injured while trying to pull the fighters apart, she could understand. It had taken the sixth and seventh year male prefects to finally break the fight and by then it involved over a dozen people.

***

Harry wasn’t paying any attention to the woman, Minerva, professor McGonagall, whatever. He knew she was noticing and that it was making her angrier, but really, he didn’t care. He wished they expelled him for this. He wished he could just go back.

“Now, tell me, what in Merlin’s name would prompt you to act like this?”

There was a pause. Perhaps she needed some air or perhaps this wasn’t a rhetorical question any more. It was hard to say.

“Id was my fauld, bobessor” said Ron through the cotton stuffing his bleeding nose.

What now? Okay. So Harry didn’t regret it and in fact would do it all over again. But he knew, _he knew_ , he had been the first one to strike. And he was fed up with people speaking for him.

“Shut up, you… um, moron!” he said, although he found now that the fires of his righteous fury had died. He was just tired, so tired. To McGonagall he said “ _I_ hit first.”

“I broboked him” Ron added instantly pointing at his chest for emphasis and perhaps clarification. “Twit” he said, looking at Harry.

 ***

They were both sent to their rooms, with thirty points less for Gryffindor (“Well done, Ronald!” said some red-haired older students. “The term hasn’t started and the house is already in negative points!”) and detention starting the very next day.

Harry refused to apologize, because he wasn’t sorry. But later he did admit that Ron had been quite brave, blaming himself, and Ron in turn said maybe he should have shut up the first time Harry told him to and that he didn’t think that Remus was a beast, not any more.

By the time they went to detention the next day, they were already good friends.

***

For some reason, they honestly believed that once Harry saw the wet mossy walls of Hogwarts, he would be instantly charmed and forget everything and stop being angry.

That snotty prefect with the voice had told Harry that the kind of behaviour he exhibited on his first night would get him expelled, _as if that were a bad thing_.

Yeah, Harry didn’t understand it either.

To be perfectly fair, he was only trying to get expelled half of the time. The other half he was just communicating his thoughts in a very emphatic manner while at the same time finding some sort of meditative inner calm through violence.

At least the students in Hogwarts were more responsive than the adults, and they soon learned not to mention Remus in Harry’s presence. Ernie McMillan’s nose could give testimony of it. And that third year Ravenclaw who thought she knew everything about werewolves. And the fat Hufflepuff kid who repeated again and again that his father worked in the Ministry as if that made him an instant expert.

Harry fought all of them and his mood improved enormously.

Of course he risked alienating everyone in the school and creating more enemies than he could safely handle. Not everybody took a broken nose with the same grace as Ron Weasley.

But Harry didn’t care. He was carefree, which was the closest he could get at the moment to being free.

And also, despite attempting to fight every single person that crossed him, Harry remained a good kid. There was soft earth inside him, kind and nurturing.

Which is why when Draco Malfoy took Neville’s remeberall, not only did Harry retrieve it, he also tackled Draco to the floor and almost made him swallow the damned ball. And because Harry had grown up with Olivia and hence had a very particular sense of gender equality, the next time he overheard Pansy Parkinson making fun of Angelina Johnson’s hair, he kicked her right in the ass when they were coming from Herbology and she landed on her ass in a muddy puddle.

“ _You”_ McGonagall said as she dragged Harry back to the tower from the neck of his robes “are singlehandedly responsible for most of the lost points from Gryffindor.”

There was a gasp, loud and long. Fred Weasley stared at Harry, one hand in the air and the other clutching some imaginary pearls. He looked deeply offended.

“How could you?” exclaimed Fred lengthening his “u”s and eyes still locked with Harry’s before suddenly and dramatically turning his attention to McGonagall. “How could you say something like that, Professor?”

“I am deeply wounded” added George, his gaze lost in the middle distance. His right hand over his forehead in the classic I-am-swooning posture.

“Clearly we have to step up our game, George.”

“Right you are Fred.”

“We should start at once. Lee!”

“I have a hammer” said Lee Jordan. The most ominous words uttered in the halls of Hogwarts.

“Come back here this instant” cried McGonagall to the three quickly retreating boys, her hand still clutching Harry’s robes tightly.

***

Perhaps Severus was paranoid and saw shadows everywhere. Perhaps the pang on his arm this summer was nothing more than a cramp.

But Severus just couldn’t risk it. Some things he did not know, it was true, and most were just suspicions and vague guesses. But some things were undeniable, like the fact that the Ministry could not have broken the barriers in the cottage without external help.

That was a fact.

They had come in a full moon night. Very few people knew about Remus’ lycanthropy.

That was a coincidence.  

Severus spied a glimmer on the collar of Harry’s school robes. He had had his eyes on him since he arrived at the school, of course. His robes were just like any other school robes under the light of the sun or the multiple white candles used thorough he castle. But the dungeons had their own light, indirect and tempered. In that soft light Severus saw something that was not in other clothes.

They had put Harry under a surveillance charm, to hear if he planned an escape or to learn something else of his previous life.

That was a guess.

A Slytherin guess. So he couldn’t afford not to listen.

***

It was a problem. Not just Potter’s unexpected violence. In fact, Minerva understood that, even if she did not approve. The case could have been handled much better and if they violently broke in the boy’s house, of course he was going to react like that.

The additional problem was that Harry had fought enough people to get detention until the end of the academic year. According to Minerva’s calculations only two detention-free days remained, and that accounted for weekends. It was a problem because Potter didn’t seem like he was going to calm down anytime soon and obviously the threat of lost points and detentions had no effect.

Minerva did what she had to. She did not like it and she wasn’t proud. Part of the Gryffindor bravery is making the decisions nobody likes for the greater good.

“Where is your wand, Potter?”

“Oh, I forgot to bring it, professor.”

Of course he did. Against all reason, Potter had no interest whatsoever in magic. The urgent problem was his tendency towards fighting, but she could see this could get out of hand too. He kept losing his wand. He was distracted. His work was appallingly poor and he only bothered with homework about half of the time.

How could he lose his wand? In all her years Minerva had never seen anything like that. Not even Longbottom, who was a fat clumsy tragedy all by his own, managed to misplace his wand. And Longbottom acted properly ashamed whereas Potter never apologized, never said he was sorry. In fact, the look in his eyes said quite clearly he was not sorry _at all_ even when half of the time it seemed it wasn’t a deliberate act of defiance on his part but actual absent-mindness. He forgot his wand because that’s what he did and he did not lament it.

“This is the third time this week, Potter.”

“I wouldn’t know, I can’t say that I have been keeping track.”

“Minus five points from Gryffindor” said Minerva. And thank Godric for the well behaved fifth year, that she would be able to give some points back that same day. Now she had to give Potter a corridor pass so he could go fetch his wand, and he would return late, not that it would make any difference in his transformation works since he could not do it at all. And that was supposing he returned to class and didn’t pick another fight in the way.  

He came back twenty minutes before the end of the class, wand in hand, accompanied by a ruffled Percival Weasley who said Harry had indeed managed to fight someone again.

“Thank you, Weasley, you may retire.”

Percival left, head straight and shoulders back, carrying the satisfaction of a good performance. Minerva didn’t even bother to ask what it had been this time.

(“Oh! There goes Wild Potter” said in a singsong voice by a fourth year Ravenclaw. “You know, I hear he has the rabies from the half-breed monster that kept him in the cellar.” They never punished them for saying those things).

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Potter” said Minerva, feeling something like a clump of black tea leaves stuck in her throat. “And detention.”

Potter nodded, as he always did. He was not a very talkative boy.

“Weasley, you will have to go to detention in Potter’s place, since he is amassing so many punishments.”

“What?” exlaimed Ron who had only been paying half attention.

“No!” cried Harry, quick as if he had burned.

“Two hours on Saturday.”

“You can’t do that! That is not FAIR!!”      

“Minus five points for speaking back and out of place, Potter. Longbottom, detention.”

Minerva had to take fifty points out of Gryffindor total by the end of the class, and Weasley got another detention all by himself. But it worked. By the end of the week, all the first year Gryffindor boys had detention and Potter had stopped fighting everyone.

***

Harry stopped everything. It’s not like he actually wanted to hit people, but it stopped them from saying those horrible things about Remus. Now he couldn’t even do that.

He stopped talking again. Ron noticed immediately and by dinner time he and the twins had gotten Harry out of his black mood. But outside of that, he didn’t talk. To the teachers that insisted that he did the assigned work, and the students who slowly came back with their taunts. Silence, white and blue like the walls of a hospital.

He was unable to focus in class. Even if he sat in the front row and away from the window his mind wandered away, thinking of Remus and where he was and of Olivia and what she would say when Harry didn’t show up to the secondary school and generally anything else but whatever the teacher was explaining. It was just easier if he didn’t pay attention and he just let his mind wander away.

***

It was such a delicate job.

First Severus had to reduce the recipe of all-reveal potion to its most basic components. Then he had to find a recipe similar enough so that when students prepared it in class, for a few minutes they had all-reveal in their cauldrons before turning it to something else. After that Severus would have to non verbally and with a minimum amount of wand movement send the smoke of the cauldron to Harry’s collar at the precise moment so that it would condense over the clothes and reveal whether Severus’ suspicions were right or not.

And he would have to content himself with this method rather than casting _Curiosum Revelio_ , because if he did the latter then whoever was listening on the other side would notice. Even if Severus were to do it non verbally, they would notice. If they had put an _inquisitor_ they were sure to had put a tampering alarm with it.

Sending the smoke… that was incredibly precise magic. The kind it took years to master to get the most delicate work right.

Or he could just stand behind Longbottom to make sure he didn´t create a poison again and make the boy so nervous that he ended up overturning his cauldron and spilling the all-reveal everywhere (it wasn’t even supposed to be ready at this stage, the boy added the mother of pearl before time. Why. Why would he do that).

A flick of his wand and the whole bench was drenched in the solution, including Harry.

***

“Harry, you have something like a lose thread in your robe” said Granger. “Here, by the collar.”

***

In October Harry was informed that he was now part of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He was handed a broom and the schedule of the training sessions and told to report to Oliver Wood.

Both Hooch and Minerva had seen some natural talent in him. Minerva also hoped that he enjoyed the sport as much as his father did, because she had noticed how quiet and withdrawn he had become and that was almost as bad as the unchecked rage.  

***

Flying was wonderful.

There was no other way to describe it. The moment Harry was in the air everything went on hold. All the sadness and the anguish stayed on the floor.

Also, the team. The team was great. The twins were there, and they were funny and kind in a surreptitious way. Oliver only cared about Quidditch and didn’t give a flying foul about Harry’s history. The girls, Katie, Angelina and Alicia didn’t exactly like Harry but they didn’t hate him either. They were still undecided about him kicking Pansy Parkinson in the ass, deserved as it had been.

And now Harry had access to a broom.

Friday night he sneaked out of the Gryffindor tower after curfew. He had so many detentions that the prefects had no idea when he was supposed to go to them. The castle’s main doors were too big. Even if there was no one around, the draft would be felt and they would hear the noise. Fortunately, Harry had already discovered two other more discreet doors and he left through one of them in the west wing, near the Hufflepuff basement they weren’t supposed to know was there.

He got to the shed where they kept the brooms. The shed was locked after hours but Harry was short for his age and fit through the window he had left open the day before.

He got on the broom.

Harry was always thinking of Remus, his dad to all effects. But when he was on the floor his thoughts were gloomy and bitter, there was only the worry about what had happened to him. He hadn’t seen him since they were captured. He wasn’t allowed to talk to him. He had sent letters as soon as he got his hands on an owl. Hedwig always returned without them, so she was delivering them somewhere. But Harry hadn’t received any answer so he didn’t know if Remus got to read them.

In the air, however, there was hope and good memories. There was Remus teaching him about a thousand dangerous creatures and how to deal with them. Not beat them, not necessarily, but to survive them.

The broom went up, up, up. Harry ascended zigzagging softly, carefully, making sure to stay away from the light.

He went pass the bleachers and the goal posts, to the top of the brightly coloured towers with the private viewing boxes.

The broom started to vibrate. Harry’s hands and thighs tingled at first and then went numb as the vibration increased with the altitude.

He kept climbing until he was well above the Quidditch field, although dishearteningly, he saw that some of the towers of the castle still rose above him. Harry ascended until the vibration of the broom became so much that he started to have trouble keeping his balance and a few bristles came loose and fell.  Then he leaned over the broom, his body almost parallel to the floor, and he pushed forward and away from the castle.

He went at full speed. The air ringing in his hear and his eyes half closed against it. He had to hold fast to the broom that almost wanted to push him off. He went as fast as he could over the top of the trees in the Forbidden Forest.

And then, little by little the broom started to lose speed and power until it just hovered in the sky and refused to go forward no matter what Harry tried.

He would have tried. Having been in the air for so long, Harry would have attempted to descend to the forest and cross it walking to the other side. He was not scared of any creature that called it their home.

But he couldn’t. The broom started to go back to the castle, slowly turning around all by itself.

Harry descended back to the Quidditch pit blinking away tears from his eyes. In that moment, he wanted to die. As he came closer he saw there was a figure standing there, arm and wand extended and pointing at him.

Maybe they would take his flying privileges too. Harry just hoped they didn’t punish any other Gryffindor for this.

“Hogwarts is the safest wizarding building in Britain” said Dumbledore, pocketing his wand. “There are wards all over the place that prevent anyone from coming uninvited.”

He spoke like a lecture, an oddly cheery lecture in the middle of the night. He did not sound angry and that was a first with the teachers in the school. They were all angry at Harry for some reason or another.

“Had you kept flying at that speed, I am afraid you would have found yourself slamming against a barrier a few yards in.” Dumbledore explained. “It is part of the protective charms to stop muggles or bad wizards from flying through here.”

Harry stared at him. Now that he was back on land he felt as if his knees had turned to jelly and all his blood was rushing through his legs and arms. He sensed that he had, perhaps, attempted something insanely dangerous. He hadn’t even packed a sandwich with him or his cloak. Severus always insisted on warm clothes.

“That was some flying you did just now” Dumbledore said, still without any trace of anger.

The night was quiet. It wasn’t very cold yet, autumn being kind and late this year. Harry felt like he should say something.

“I do like flying” he said, not knowing if he would regret later giving up this much.

“So did your father, if I remember correctly” Dumbledore smiled. He meant, of course, James. Remus said he had always been too tall to have any proper balance in a broom. He mentioned riding a flying motorcycle, once. “He was a Chaser.”

The silence fell again between them. Harry found difficult talking to people. Ron and the twins and Dean and Neville and Seamus, they were fine. But with others it was just hard. Dumbledore didn’t seem to mind however, he didn’t cluck his tongue impatiently as Harry gathered his thoughts from wherever they had wandered to.

“Now, however, I believe it is time for you to go back to your bed. I will walk you, we don’t want someone else to find you and think you were out during curfew.”

Well, that was actually nice.

“Umh, thank you professor.”

“Oh, not at all, not at all” murmured Dumbledore. He waited whistling softly while Harry put the broom back in its place and then walked with him all the way to the Gryffindor tower. It was a long walk and they had to go slowly because, as Dumbledore explained, with old age you are never in a hurry (unless you need a toilet) and your knees complain often. He chatted amiably the whole way, not minding much when Harry took a while to answer. He asked about how much Harry liked flying and about his classes and his friends and even if he liked the food in the school, and he offered commentary too, oddly honest and funny. He too thought that the kitchens provided way too many beet based dishes.

He seemed… he was almost and ally, Dumbledore. Very eccentric, of course. But also very understanding and he acknowledged that Harry was going through a tumultuous time. Harry was so tired of being ignored, this was very welcome.

***

Lemon blossom in a potion would slow down its effects, and oxeye daisy in large quantities annulled the effect or nightshadow. But Harry didn’t say any of this when Snape asked him in class the very first day. He said nothing because lemon blossom’s meant silence and oxeye daisies were waiting, and so Harry waited.

At last, Severus asked him about aconite and balsamine and Harry knew it would be today.

(Aconite was misanthropy, which was a negative, but also wolf’s bane. Balsamine was also called impatiens. Together, they meant the end of waiting).

Harry botched the Healing Potion and managed to get immediate detention cleaning the cauldrons. He waited with his heart beating hard and fast in his chest for the classroom to empty and then, at last, got the hug he had desperately needed for the last ten weeks.

They didn´t have much time, Severus said, as he threw a handful of flywings (not the same as actual wings from flies) in to the flame of a candle. There was a black smoke with a terrible smell, the price for five minutes of absolute magic-proof privacy.

They wasted a full minute in a hug.

“Can you take me away?” asked Harry, although he knew the answer already. Just as he had soon gathered that it would be best not to mention Severus (not that anyone listened) to the people that had taken him. All his protestations of Remus’ innocence only served to convince them even more of his guilt, so he wasn’t about to give Severus away. After all, Remus didn’t have any choice about being a werewolf and yet everybody spoke of him as if he spent his free time devouring old little ladies. Harry couldn’t imagine what they would say of Severus the deatheater.  

He understood. But it didn’t mean he hadn’t been hoping that maybe Severus would take his hand, just as he did when they took walks through the country or the parks, when Harry was little and Severus taught him all about plants. He would hold his hand and take him away and they would go find Remus and everything would be fine again. 

Harry had hoped for that. He knew it wouldn’t be because he wasn’t blind, but still he had hoped.

And he knew it was silly because he had seen how many wizards were surrounding him at all times. And he had seen them come to his house so Harry knew, and this was the worst part, that he wouldn’t be able to return. And he didn’t mind, it was all right, he could stay here forever if that’s what they wanted but please, just, please, let Remus – _Let him go_ , he didn’t say, because the stupid tears were choking him again despite how angry it made him that these people made him cry. He would trade himself for Remus gladly. Let him go and he would stay in the stupid school.

“Harry, listen to me” Severus said crouching so they would be face to face. “You have the help of the Head of Slytherin, and that is one very powerful thing.”

Harry looked at him doubtfully because in this moment something very powerful looked like a flamethrower and a helicopter.

And then Severus proceeded to give him proof of Slytherin cunning.

“Do you remember Polyphemus?”

Of course he did. He had read a children version of _The Odissey_ that didn’t have any pictures when he was around ten.

Oh!

That’s how you get away from the giant keeping you on a cave. You wait and you trick him.

“And remember Penelope?”

Harry nodded. Penelope was kind of a cool in a very subtle way. Olivia thought it was a pity she didn’t just poison all her suitors, but the veil trick was good.

“You will have to be both, Harry. Be patient and be meek until you find or make your opportunity. I will help you as much as I can.”

That was… Harry smiled the first honest smile in almost fifty days.

Harry left the dungeons carrying the biggest treasure. The knowledge that he wasn’t alone and that someone would still listen and tell him the truth. And also, hope. Hope that this wouldn’t be forever. Hope that Severus would help him get back to Remus and disappear once more.

“Do try not to permanently blind anyone” Severus said as his parting words, while he waved his wand and _evanesco_ the cauldrons. He touched his left and frowned. “And remember that Shere Khan is always on the prowl. Don’t leave the cave when the tiger is nearby.”

***

It was just one troll. One.

Singular.

There was no reason to react like this for a mere simple troll. One troll. Three students. Two of which could do magic pretty well.

Obviously no one else saw it like that. But they didn’t lose that many points and Harry and Ron made a friend, so there is that.

***

Christmas was a roller coaster of emotions.

Harry woke up feeling sad already. This would be his first Christmas away from home. He hadn’t gotten out of bed and it felt like a punch already.

Then there was the discovery that the Weasleys had included him in their family celebrations and Harry received his very own Weasley sweater. For a while he found himself unable to swallow or speak and he would be forever grateful for the twins’ jokes that took the attention away from him until he could speak again.

Fred announced Harry was practically a Weasley now, and attempted to dye Harry’s hair red. Failing that, they wrestled him to the ground to paint some freckles on his cheeks and they all had a good laugh about it.  

Melancholy hit again some time around mid morning, when Harry discovered a box of chocolate wands discretely tucked in his backpack. The gift was good. The chocolate brought a warm feeling to Harry. But the fact that it had to be delivered in secret, that Severus couldn’t openly show him any affection… it had a toll.

By lunch time Harry had gone through more emotions than an eleven year old was ready to handle. He had also turned the cushions in the common room blue, then black, then green and then yellow. He kicked them under a couch hoping no one would notice before they went back to deep Gryffindor red.

After lunch McGonagall came to him and Harry had no idea what it was about this time, but he knew he wasn’t apologizing not until he had some idea of what it was going to be and maybe not even after that. Just in case, he told Ron to leg it. McGonagall didn’t hand as many detentions to the others if they weren’t around for Harry to see their faces. When he was alone she just increased the number of desks and cauldrons he was supposed to clean.

But for once, she was not giving him detention and instead indicated that Dumbledore wanted to see him in the Headmaster office, which could be good or very bad, who knew. Maybe they had finally decided to expel Harry. That would be wonderful.

***

“I wanted to give you this personally” said Dumbledore. His blue eyes twinkled behind the gold half moon glasses.

Harry took the package from his hands. It was something soft and light, wrapped in green and yellow paper.

“It belonged to your father, you know” said Dumbledore as Harry unwrapped it carefully and revealed… something grey. “I though you should have it, though” Dumbledore went on. “It is rightfully yours.”

It was a piece of grey cloth. Not even a particularly nice shade of grey. It looked like the sky on a typical cloudy day, undecided on whether it would rain or not in the evening.

But when Harry lifted it up and put a hand behind, he saw.

He looked back at Dumbledore, eyes open wide.

“A most rare and unique item” Dumbledore said, warmly. “The legacy of your family. Your history.”

“This is…” Harry hesitated, it was hard to speak unprompted. He needed time to get his thoughts in order. “Wow. Thank you, professor.”

“No problem at all, no problem.” Dumbledore smiled. “I was just keeping custody of it until I could hand it to you.”

Harry wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at the weird fabric, making his feet appear and disappear from view.

“I should remind you to be prudent, of course. I have heard you have a  certain disregard for rules.”

“Of course, professor, yes sir.”

“I do mean it for your safety, Harry” now Dumbledore sounded a tad more serious. “I wouldn’t want you to run into any risky situations as with your… flying training.”

He understood. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get out of Hogwarts (had tried already the very first weekend but the gates wouldn’t budge) but he could move around the grounds with freedom and that was a wonderful thing. Even if Dumbledore insisted that the cloak was his, he had given him a magnificent gift.

“There is something else” Dumbledore went on and Harry looked at him with trepidation. His voice had changed. “I thought you deserved to receive the news personally and in private. Owl post can be so cold, after all.”

***

Harry went to the top of the Astronomy tower, deserted at this time. He sat on the floor, his back to the cold stones, and he threw the cloak over himself and wished he could die, that he could dissolve in a cloud of mist like the little mermaid did in that story, that he could melt like the brave tin soldier.

There had been a trial for Remus. With no lawyer to defend him and no witnesses, certainly not Harry.

There had been a trial and Harry now clutched the official parchment that informed him that Remus had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, wherever that was, with no possibility of appeal.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there. Only that the sun was low when he heard steps and saw Severus’ grumpy face emerge from the stairs.

“Harry?” he called. Softly.

Harry said nothing.

Severus did something with his wand, pointing around the room. Harry saw his lips move and counted seven breaths before Severus stepped fully on the room.

Harry had dunked all his school robes in boiling water a few weeks back. They had lost their black lustre and the prefects had been pissed. The robes were as threadbare as Ron’s now. He had picked nine wiry strings from the bottom of the bat, wet and blackened and curled against themselves.

Hermione had been the one to come with the idea, and her expression, when she saw, had thunder and the smell of ozone in it. Harry was glad, oh so glad, to have her on his side. Hermione, he thought, and not him, was the kind of person who could defeat a dark lord.

Having been found, it was unlikely that the Ministry, or whoever had done this, would try again. The wires would show up clearly on the robes, for one thing. Nevertheless, Harry was still very careful not to voice certain things.

Or most things.

Severus thought that Harry was wire-free now ( _inquisitor secreto_ he called them, although wire was a much better name really). He had overhead McGonagall discussing it with Dumbledore because she had seen, too, after the robes were boiled and she had not approved of it. Words like “insane” and “bloody disgraceful” had been used. Severus still used four silencing charms, but that was a huge step over having to use the expensive and difficult to obtain flywings whenever they wanted to talk.

Now, he explained to Harry that the charm _hominum revelio_ showed the caster the silhouette of all hidden humans, even when under the cloak. He said he knew to cast it because he had heard the castle’s stones humming “With or Without you” and he followed the song to the top of the tower.

Harry was sure that last part was completely made up, but he didn’t have the energy to refute it. Severus sat by his side and put his arm over his shoulders and dragged him close, cloak an all. Harry leaned his head on him and felt like he would not be able to move in a hundredth years.

Severus didn’t know what had upset Harry. He had come, as he claimed, following the song. Harry showed him the Ministry letter, wrinkled and a bit wet, and Severus’s body tensed. He was silent for a very, very, long time and they both sat there, Severus’ left arm over Harry’s shoulders and his chin resting on top of Harry’s head.

***

Ron explained a bit about Azkaban, but Harry noticed he wasn’t saying something. The twins too were unusually vague about it. Hermione had gone back to her family for the holidays, so Harry found Percy and asked him instead, said he had found the word in a book and that he was working really hard on his late homework. And Percy explained.

Harry wasn’t angry with Ron and the twins for lying. It wasn’t lying, really, it was just keeping away a big piece of truth that they knew Harry wouldn’t like to hear. And he hadn’t liked it. It was all he could do not to break down in front of the blissfully oblivious Percy. But nevertheless Harry thought it was better to know.

***

In January Harry climbed up to the aviary. There was a low window there, and you could go over the windowsill and sit on the roof of one of the halls below. Feel the sun and the air on your face.

It was nice.

Dangerous, too, because you were in fact sitting on the roof of a medieval castle, but mostly nice. Besides, Harry had very good balance. At times, it seemed like it was the only thing he was good at.

Hedwig came from her perch to sit next to him. Harry petted her head softly. She had only returned a day and half ago.

Azkaban’s inmates were not allowed to receive any letters. Hedwig didn’t even get to the island before she was sent back with a tersely written official notification. The yellowish paper told Harry it was a pre-dictated answer and he didn’t know how to feel about that. That many others before him had tried to contact people in Azkaban, for years, enough for the Ministry to have this printed decades ago.

“You can fly anywhere” Harry told Hedwig. The owl pecked at his fingers playfully and scooted closer. The wind was picking up and Harry offered convenient refuge.

“I don’t want you to live in a cage.”

Hedwig understood. She rubbed her head against Harry’s side and elbow and after a while she opened her snow white wings and took flight. Harry saw her glide over the Forbidden Forest and kept her on his sight for a long while, until she descended to the trees and he couldn’t see her any more.

She didn’t return. Harry thought he may have caught a glimpse of her a couple of times during the next week but after that, nothing. She had been a very good pet and he missed her, but the sight of her empty open cage meant something. Something in the vicinity of good.

He didn’t plan on writing any letters to anyone, so it seemed only fair.

***

He was not sleeping well.

At first, during those nightmarish weeks he just couldn’t fall asleep. Everything was strange around him and he was just unable to relax. Whenever he was about to fall asleep and he could feel his brain finally disconnecting, something inside jolted and he was shaken awake.

They had come at night. Harry didn’t feel safe when he was asleep.

He slept, eventually, and as the weeks passed it became easier. He wasn’t going anywhere and all the flying training let him so exhausted that he could push his thoughts away, fill his brain with white and fall asleep.

With the new year had come the nightmares. Visions of a forest of thorns around a castle where they kept Remus under a silver net. Wizards arresting Severus, Hermione, Ron.

A flash of green that took everything with it.

Some nightmares Harry knew he could come down from them. He could lay face up in bed, breathing deeply and grasping the sheets tightly and eventually his heart rate would go down and he could fall back asleep.

Others, he knew there would be no way he could sleep again and staying in bed unmoving and silent made it worse. On those nights he took the cloak and wandered around the castle. The building was a good distraction. The stairs moved, some corridors randomly opened and closed, and there were plenty of secret rooms and passages. Harry learned about them and it brought him peace to know the castle.

***

Harry hadn’t paid much attention to professor Quirrell, but he did notice that he seemed to have an inordinate interest in him. Enough that Harry was of a half mind to report him, like they had been told to do in that safety talk at school a lifetime ago. The only reason he didn’t was that Quirrell hadn’t actually tried anything. Didn’t offer to buy anything for Harry nor did he try to touch him when they were alone. Harry didn’t have anything concrete and seeing how wizarding society tended to overreact he did not want to be responsible for anyone else going to Azkaban.

It didn’t matter. Hermione had been keeping an eye on him too and she came to some troubling conclusions. So they went after him. If they were wrong and they got caught they could always say that it had all been Harry’s idea and she and Ron and only been trying to stop him. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be punished and maybe Harry would finally be kicked out from Hogwarts.

***

When Quirrell, or Voldemort, whoever, (one gave the order but the other was holding the wand it was all very confusing), when _he_ tried to kill Harry, when he _laughed_ , Harry fell over him with all the pent up rage he had accumulated since October. Honestly, Harry wasn’t surprised when the man’s face caught on fire. _He_ felt on fire too.

But the flames burned too hot and too high and took all the oxygen and Harry passed out.

***

Harry awoke in the infirmary with the smell of cranberries and pomegranate faint but still present around him. Severus had been there, had been close enough to leave a small trace of himself on Harry’s pillow. When he opened his eyes, however, the beatific face of Dumbledore greeted him.

So he had apparently defeated (l ~~ord~~ ) Voldermort and saved Nicolas Flamel’s philosopher stone and, most importantly, neither Hermione nor Ron had been punished for it although they had both gotten a piece of McGonagall’s mind.

Harry had not been sleeping well this year and the image of Voldemort’s face embedded on Quirrell’s skull was not going to be of help. It was all he could see when he closed his eyes.

“He is dead, isn’t it?” asked Harry at last, focusing on the pattern of the blanket. It was better than looking Dumbledore in the eye.

“Professor Quirrell, I’m afraid he is” Dumbledore answered in a soft voice. “His body could not take Voldemort’s departure. But Voldemort himself is another matter.”

Harry took three deep breaths to force down the bile that was rising up his throat.

So far, Dumbledore had been pretty nice.

He dared ask.

“Did I… Did I kill him?”

“Oh, no, Harry. Voldemort did. You see, your mother’s sacrifice gave you a powerful protection. Something that the Dark Lord himself can’t conquer. The power of her love is in you.”

His mother’s love manifested in fire and explosions. As far as he could tell from what Remus and Severus had told him, it was perfectly fitting. But Dumbledore said that in order for the protection to remain over him, Harry had to go back to the Dursleys’, his last maternal relatives.

Aunt Petunia didn’t seem like she could defend anything. Aunt Petunia was like a wet piece of celery. Harry tried to impress this point on Dumbledore, because the week he had spent in there had been horrible and what little he remembered from his first years in that house came with pain and hunger and paralyzing fear.

“I wish it could be another way, I really do, Harry. But the Ministry was quite insistent. And you have seen that Voldemort can not be killed and he will come back, one way or another. We must ensure your safety above all, Harry.”

Harry looked down again. He could survive this. He could. Just like Penelope. He would survive summer with the Dursleys and then he would survive Hogwarts, somehow, just as he had done this year. And sometime in between he would find his way back to Remus and he would not have to go back to either place ever again.

Breathing was hard. He didn’t dare look at the windows because he knew the glass would be glazing and turning black.

“I heard that accommodations last year were… deficient, so to speak” Dumbledore was refilling the glass of water in the bedside table. “Rest assured I will have a conversation with your aunt and uncle before your return this year.”

Harry exhaled and accepted gratefully the glass that Dumbledore handed him. The windows’ panes cleared before Dumbledore could see them as he rose to leave. This wasn’t good, but it was getting better.

“Professor, can I ask something else?”

Dumbledore turned around. Oh, how his glasses shone. How beautiful was that shade of gold.

“Why is he- Why does he hate me so? Voldemort, I mean. Why, why would he go after me when I was only one year old?”

For a moment there was something in Dumbledore’s gaze. It was so quick Harry couldn’t read it. Perhaps it was tiredness, or regret, or calculation. He couldn’t say. Only that it had been there.

“Oh, Harry, do not fret. There is no need to burden you further. And Madam Pomfrey will be very angry if I don’t let you rest.”

“I guess… but will you tell me? One day?”

“Of course, Harry. I promise. When you are ready, I will tell you everything.”

***

How relaxing is the sound of a moving train.

The rhythmic thumps of the wheels over the rails. A pattern that keeps repeating again and again at exactly the same time. Travelling in a train is like being inside a music sheet, sitting in the background score to the main melody. Harry closed his eyes and let himself be engulfed by the soft repetitive sound of the train and Hermione and Ron’s voices arguing without heat about something, probably Ron’s candy intake.

They had won the House Cup at the last minute. Harry was glad for Neville, because the poor boy deserved good things happening to him. Also, maybe this would get all the prefects off Harry’s back. Although he was doubtful that they would remember for next year.

Next year… Next year was actually a little over a couple of months away and yet it seemed like ages. Next year was on the other side of summer.

But Dumbledore had promised that he would talk to the Dursleys.

No, not promised. Harry couldn’t help but keep a mental score of promises and vows made by adults. He didn’t know why. It was just something his brain had started doing, and Harry never had much control of his train of thoughts to begin with, definitely not since he came to Hogwarts. The best he could do was try to push some order to all the bouncing ideas in his head and see what he came with.  

Dumbledore said he would talk to them. That was affirmative. It was action. He had _promised_ that one day he would explain things to Harry. Promises were supposed to be more solid but Harry had come to the conclusion that they were just things people said to appease you. Not even intentions, more like a vague wish.

So _maybe_ at some _undisclosed_ point _in the future_ , Dumbledore _perhaps_ would explain.

The thing is Harry had known Severus used to be a deatheater since before age seven. He recalled clearly the unbearable heat of that summer and spotting some traces of ink on Severus’ forearm, as he had finally had to roll up his sleeves and unbutton the neck of his shirt. For a long while Harry thought Severus used to be in a biker gang. He had caught some scenes of _Mad Max_ on the TV when he was a bit older, and that’s pretty much what he imagined. He thought it was incredibly cool, that Severus used to be a bad boy who now protected Harry and taught him baking and how to detect poisons. Remus said that that was pretty much it.

When Harry was ten, said deatheater told him about a prophecy he overheard. Harry knew Voldemort had come after him because he was scared of what Harry could become. Harry had recently seen _The Prince of Egypt_ and pictured himself with robes, but no beard, parting not only the waters but a mountain too and Voldemort (who looked a bit like Emperor Palpatine) cowering in fear and promising to be good from there on. Then there would be cake, because Harry’s imagination used to be a kind place in which bad people didn’t die, they converted or they fell to their deaths like Gaston.

Harry now thought of a different film. He thought of how Frollo told Quasimodo that only he would care for him, only he could protect him from the crowd, but in the end everybody loved Quasimodo and he made a lot of friends even if he didn’t get Esmeralda. Frollo was a liar. He had a nice deep voice and Harry liked his songs, but he was a _liar_.

Funny how Harry’s brain came with this kind of connections.


	2. The second year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for starvation at the start of the chapter and domestic abuse at the end, plus a passing mention of suicide thoughts. Not the happiest chapter, this one.

In retrospect, perhaps Harry should have kept Hedwig with him.

He didn’t know. On the one hand, if he had Hedwig he could send a letter to someone asking for help. On the other, he wasn’t sure that they would answer. Harry’s expectations of adults were very low.

Well, Ron would. Ron and Hermione. They would definitely help.

The situation wasn’t _terrible_. Harry had read a bit of Dumas and Salgari (not as much as he would have liked to because the library at Hogwarts was dreadful and had all the wrong kind of books) and he knew you can barely call it imprisonment if there are no shackles and a pallet with a straw mattress. Harry had a room. A proper one at that without a slanted ceiling and with a bedframe and a bed. The walls were plaster and paper rather than stone.

But he was locked in there. He was only allowed out twice a day to go to the bathroom and he never set a foot outside the house. That prohibition wasn’t that bad, actually, because if he could go outside Harry would put on the cloak and attempt to escape and he was sure that someone would find him and then they would take the cloak and there would be trouble. So he could stay inside and think of a better plan to go find Remus, that was no problem.

But they were not giving him much to eat and Harry was hungry.

Harry didn’t remember even being hungry in the blue cottage. He remembered falling ravenously over food after a long day playing outside. But to him, real hunger came with a feeling of desolation, of being terribly small and alone and confused by the world.

He kept thinking about apples. Sweet but with a tart accent.

***

Harry started to get some weird thoughts.

He had a room. He had a bed. He had a few books but none of the school ones because Vernon had locked his trunk in the closet under the stairs.

Better the trunk than him that was for sure. Although he was locked too, only now he had space to stand and stretch.

The wallpaper was yellow. Sometimes the corners were an ugly green.

He could go to the bathroom. He could wash. If he sat on the floor of his room, he could get the sun on his face, or his chest, or his legs. He could not get the sun over all of his body at the same time.

Was this like Remus felt, too?

The days blended together, like a bag of gummy bears left under the sun. That happened to him once. Harry wasn’t getting much sun, but he wasn’t hungry anymore, just a little bit tired. The gummy bears were different colours and the days were different colours too. Most were yellow, but there was green and red.

This made sense.

It was boring, and he was tired. But he wasn’t hungry anymore. He wasn’t anything. He was not feeling very much.

Had he been talking to someone?

He had the impression he had talked to someone, but that couldn’t be because he was locked in the room. Twice a day he could leave and Aunt Petunia brought him food in the morning and evening but she didn’t really talk to him.

“Harry Potter must not return to Hogwarts.”

“Oh, I wish. But they will come looking and people will get hurt. They took him, they may take someone else if I don’t go back.”

“Harry Potter is in danger!”

“Gimme danger, little stranger” answered Harry, which was hilarious because Dob?, yes, Dob was very little. He chuckled. “and I’ll give you a piece.”

How was the song again? _There’s nothing in my dreams, just some ugly memories…_ Well, wasn’t that right. He wished he could listen to the song again. All of his things were back at the blue cottage. Everything else, the Ministry had given to him or Hagrid bought it in Diagon Alley. But those weren’t really his things. He wished he could have his books back and his coloured pencils and his Walkman.

There was an apple, yellow and red (colours mixed and blended, like the days, like Harry’s mind), resting on top of his pillow.

There was an apple. Harry bit it, sitting on his bed. It wasn’t that perfect blend of sweet and tart, but it was good and something in Harry awoke.

Starting with a painful emptiness in his stomach. Ouch. But also a sudden cutting awareness in his brain. As if he had spent the last few weeks without glasses and now he had them back and he were able to see again.

He ate the apple, core and all, and hid the stem and the seeds in his pocket so Aunt Petunia wouldn’t find them.

He _had_ talked to someone, hadn’t he? He was quite certain that he did not have his Walkman during the last year, yet he could see it now on top of a chair together with a few cassette tapes and a couple of books. _Proper_ books.

The colour of the walls changed. Harry kept finding apples in the most unexpected corners of the room.

***

Harry got letters both from Ron and Hermione. They asked why he hadn’t answered and Harry couldn’t remember getting any others before. Unfortunately, the owls left immediately so he couldn’t attach an answer to them.

He wasn’t sure how much an owl could carry, but he remembered that Malfoy used to get pastries almost every day of school. Maybe they could send him a basket with a few cans of soup.

***

Finally, there were more letters and this time Harry had his answer prepared for the owl to take back. Two days later Ron was knocking on his window and waving a hand holding a wrapped sandwich. He was waving from a car. A flying car that Fred or possibly George Weasley was driving.

“Merlin’s beard, you were right!” said Ron. “Not that I didn’t believe you, but- here, just eat this” he shoved the sandwich in Harry’s hands and Harry ate slowly sitting cross-legged on his bed looking at Ron and Fred as they picked the locks and got his trunk and put everything in the car. Harry could feel himself waking. The sandwich was very good and neither the cheese nor the bread had any mould on it.

They glided away from the house. Slowly and as silently as possible they hovered a few centimetres over the road by the number eight where they picked up George.

“Oh, wow” he said as soon as he saw Harry. He shook himself and thankfully recovered quickly from the shock of whatever was so surprising of Harry’s current appearance. “Street is clear. Saw no wizards around” he said, putting on the seatbelt.

And with that, Fred pressed the pedal and they were on the clouds.

***

Molly Weasly was a gift to humanity. Harry wondered what Remus would think of her.

She yelled at Ron, Fred, and George for being irresponsible and a hundred other transgressions. Then she looked at Harry and her face made something weird, as if she couldn’t decide on an expression, and proceeded to give Harry a smothering hug, his glasses crooked and sticking him in the bridge of his nose.

It was a wonderful hug. She kept yelling at her children through it, but the hug was awesome.

Then she made them all sit down and gave them breakfast.

Harry got a look at himself after that in the bathroom mirror. He was a bit pale so the shadows under his eyes were more pronounced, and maybe his cheeks were a bit sunken, but that was to be expected. He hadn’t cut his hair since- since _before_ , so he was even more dishevelled than usual.

He looked terrible, but Harry didn’t see it because he looked close to how he felt. 

***

The good thing about children, and Harry in particular, is that they bounce back. If you give them space and food and hugs, they bounce back.

Harry got better skin colour and the shadows under his eyes receded. There was so much to do in The Burrow that he had no trouble at all falling asleep. He gained the lost weight back.

And then there was The News, delivered to him and Ron at the same time by Fred and George, because the twins had no shame about eavesdropping. The News, it turned out, overlapped nicely with The Plan. The Plan being the project Hermione had been working on all summer.

One day, Hermione was going to be Queen of the World, he was sure of it.

She had started to research magical law all by herself, because she found the lack of information about Remus’ detention, trial and imprisonment, dubious to say the least. There hadn’t been much luck in that respect but she had found instead that Harry was in some sort of limbo in which no one had custody over him. In fact, a man by the name of Sirius Black was supposed to be Harry’s legal guardian. Guardianship Black hadn’t gotten around to exercise because he was, big shock here, in Azkaban. The only other alternative was for Harry’s tutor to be his next of kin, Petunia in this case. But because she was a muggle and she hadn’t filled for a Standard Recognition of Knowledgeable Muggle Status, wizarding law didn’t really recognize her authority.

“So I don’t have a legal guardian” asked Harry in between lazy bites of a piece of liquorice.

“No, you do” said Hermione, having come to visit them at the Burrow. “A jail sentence doesn’t strip you of possessions or legal authority. It’s just that this man can’t do anything about it.”

That made no sense.

“So… Can I leave?”

“Well, the law is very unclear about it and there are not that many precedents. Attendance to Hogwarts is not mandatory” Harry perked up at that, but Hermione went on “But they require paternal consent and since you can’t get one, I think the State, in this case The Ministry for Magic is acting as your tutor.”

“What ‘Mione means to say” Ron intervened chewing on a sandwich. Harry now found himself surrounded by more food than he could possibly eat, but Ron was always happy to help. “Is that you can be adopted.”

That was the unforeseen consequence of The Plan. Someone could simply file a petition to foster Harry. Although it wasn’t as simple as that since Hermione had quickly discovered that muggle families were automatically rejected even when they had a brilliant and talented young witch in the house. Mrs. Granger had a few things to say about the Ministry’s letter. Neither she nor Mr. Granger were familiar with the concept of rejection. And before Harry asked, Hagrid couldn’t file either, because he hadn’t completed his Hogwarts education and, to quote Ron’s brother Bill, the Ministry would sooner have a convicted deatheater take care of Harry than give that kind of responsibility to a half-giant.

The Plan was facing a bit of trouble. Here is where The News came: Ron’s parents had decided to adopt Harry and were now discussing how to ask Harry his opinion about it.

“I knew it, from the moment Mum knitted you a Christmas sweater, I knew it” said Fred.

“You know what this means” George had a positively devious grin.

“It won’t hurt at all” Fred smirked, followed by a small cackle.

“We tried it with Lee last year. Just stay still and don’t move.” George was drawing his wand.

“Please, don’t.”

***

Actually, the Weasley family had more of an orange shade to their hair, with the exception of Charlie and Ginny who had a brownish hue. The twins forwent this very sensible observation and turned Harry’s raven locks into the reddest hair to ever red.

Bill Weasley, who was spending some days with the family before going back to Egypt, hurt himself laughing. It was actually kind of nice, he reminded Harry of Eddie in a way, although Bill was very different with his long hair and earring and fang pendant. He immediately put his arm over Harry’s shoulders and refused to let his mother change his hair back. And he gave Harry a hair tie.

***

Muggle technology didn’t work on magical households. Everybody knew that.

Harry was pretty sure his had been a magical household. Levitating furniture and sudden glass glazing and wallpaper redecoration all seemed like qualifying magical events, yet they also had a functioning fridge, coffee maker, TV and VHS. And Harry had his Walkman.

He walked with Ron to the neighbouring muggle town to buy batteries. His hair had lost a bit of the vibrant red now and was slowly working its way back to black through a reddish brown.  

Ron’s parents were going to adopt him. The world was a nice place.

Harry got them both an ice-cream. Harry’s ice-cream was lemon (his favourite). Ron’s was strawberry and for some reason he was embarrassed that this was his favourite flavour. Harry thought that it was stupid and strawberry was a perfectly nice flavour for ice-cream and any kind of treat really, but he still swore not to tell anyone ever. It was an easy vow to make.

The Walkman worked. Ron liked The Clash and refused to admit he also liked the Disney songs. He was intrigued by Queen. They went through most of the tapes during the next few days, walking to the fields beyond the house until they were far enough that the device was able to pick up muggle radio. They would lie on the grass under the sun, sharing earbuds and music. Sometimes they looked at the clouds but mostly Harry liked looking at The Burrow from afar with its hundreds little additions and its appearance of being permanently in motion. He liked listening to music and looking at the house that had welcomed him.

***

The tips of Harry’s hair still had a bit of red when they took their trip to London and Diagon Alley. Harry did not enjoy that trip. He hated the place and the shops in a visceral way that felt like a hand closing into a fist in his stomach. And they saw the Malfoys and Draco’s dad was such an unbearable snob, looking at the Weasleys over his shoulder like that.

He disliked the trip because it also meant returning to Hogwarts, and Harry had been so happy, so content, living at The Burrow. Sleep abandoned Harry again and he found himself lying awake at night counting, instead of sheep, the number of days since he last saw his dad.

***

They returned to Hogwarts. Harry had the protection of the Weasleys’ generosity to help him through the year.

***

Ron hadn’t been very interested in Harry’s books. He just didn’t see the appeal of a situation where things couldn’t be solved by magic in the same way that he didn’t understand how Dean could still be a fan of football when quidditch was a sport that existed.

But he had liked the music, some of it at least. And Dean Thomas hadn’t thought about it but once it was mentioned he realized that he missed muggle music too. This is how the Walkman Project started. They were not giving it all their time and energy, but it became something to think about during History of Magic class. How to make muggle technology work in school.

***

“I said” Harry repeated in a slightly louder voice. To his right Ron was staring at him with a mixed expression of horror and delight. Dean, who sat on the row before him, had turned around completely on his seat to look at Harry’s face better. Seamus was looking straight ahead so as not to miss the teacher’s expression. He was clutching Dean’s hands in excitement. “That I am not your bloody puppet.”

The smile on Gilderoy Lockhart’s face froze as his mind attempted the insurmountable task of understanding rejection. He failed, of course he did, and went through the more familiar route of reconfiguring the world to better suit his tastes.

“Ahaha, no, Harry, dear, you will just stand here and pretend you are the Waga Waga Werewolf so I can represent how I defeated it”.

All the girls in the class were angry with Harry (Ron’s guffaws gained him some ill will, too), but everyone else thought his answer was great and he didn’t even lose any points, so surprised was Lockhart that he didn’t manage to get another word. 

Not even the twins had ever sassed someone like that.

(“A werewolf is not an _it_ ” Harry had said. “If you had something more than gas in your head you would know that, you sickening plague sore.”)

***

Harry wasn’t friends with Mrs. Norris because Mrs. Norris liked no one and only just tolerated Filch.

But they had reached an agreement by which if Harry spotted Mrs. Norris during the day and they were alone, she allowed him to pet her. And if she encountered Harry at night she gave him a decent head start before going to warn Filch, in exchange for a sardines can.

Only Harry wasn’t always carrying a sardines can and sometimes he did and it was daylight but he gave it to her either way, so their agreement was a bit shaky.

Harry was very upset when Mrs. Norris was petrified. There was no reason for Filch to accuse him like that.

***

Minerva McGonagall’s heart trembled, a quick constriction of the muscle in her chest. Filch cried about his stupid nasty cat (who always tried to scratch Minerva when she was in cat form) and then said they were attacking him for being a squib and accused Potter, _Potter_.

And for a second it was not Harry, James and Lily’s son in her office, it was James himself with a bewildered and amused expression. James who was good at Quidditch and Transfigurations and easily Minerva’s favourite student despite herself because she knew he was trouble under his charming façade. (Or maybe he was her favourite because of it).

Harry had looked so hilariously offended. Ready to fight for his almost squib status. Minerva had given him a piece of liquorice and sent him on his way.

***

Harry kept his nocturnal walks even after the first attack. He hated the school during the day, but at night the castle was quieter and he just found it soothing walking through it like a ghost.

A few times, he saw the twins sneaking around too. One time he saw Ginny and another he found Malfoy in one of the high balconies of the towers. It was very tempting to throw something at him, but for once Malfoy was alone and silent and Harry thought Draco had gone as far away as he could from the castle’s dungeons. He was just leaning on the sill and staring out, so he let him be.

During these walks, he took the Walkman with him. He still hadn’t managed to make it work and it was absurd to keep trying, but he did. A couple of times he heard some whispers and thought maybe he was picking up some radio station, but he never got them in the same place.

And he also heard the whispers during the day with no Walkman, so he wasn’t sure what to think.

***

School was slightly better this year. The novelty had worn off and people didn’t pester Harry as much with the whole being the saviour of the wizarding world or the poor basement kid kidnapped by a monster. It had decreased to barely twice a day which made it quite tolerable, really.

He still kept forgetting his wand and could barely get any charm right. He was only just passing Potions because he had always liked the subject, even if Severus had to treat him coldly and ended up taking some points during class. Sometimes he would manage to get detention with him and Harry would spend a couple of hours drinking tea and eating biscuits, perusing Severus’ most advanced books in his office. Those times were great.

“The Weasleys offered to adopt me” he told Severus. “I think they would still want me to come to Hogwarts, but at least I wouldn’t be at the Dursleys anymore.”

Severus drank a bit of his tea before answering. “They are good people.” He said. “Very loyal to Dumbledore.”

Ah.

The problem with Severus was that after the revelation that Voldemort wasn’t as dead as everyone had thought him to be, he had become extra cautious. He wanted Harry out of Hogwarts but he also wanted him where he could see him at all times. He was less eager to help Harry escape and at the same time his animadversion towards everyone had increased. No one was good enough to take care of Harry.  

“If Remus got out of prison.”

“Harry, no one has ever escaped of Azkaban in all its history.”

“But if it happened…”

“I would send you with Remus immediately, yes. You could hide in my house and I know he would protect you.”

Good. No one had ever survived a killing curse and yet here was Harry. Remus could escape the unbreakable prison.

***

Transfigurations was a complete disaster. The only good point of the class was that Neville was equally bad at it, so at least they were never singled out for failing an assignment. Hermione tried to help him with little success and Harry told her to stop bothering. At least when she helped him in Charms he got better about fifty percent of the time.

The funny thing was that Harry had never had trouble with certain magic, but when McGonagall gave them some balls of yarn and told them to change their colours Harry couldn’t do it. He only managed a strange lime green instead of the rich purple McGonagall had requested. And the day they had to transform a mouse in to a candlestick Harry put his wand back in his bag and spent the whole hour staring at the ceiling (he was not allowed to sit near a window anymore) petting the mouse in his hands. He got detention for that, even though he hardly got any detention lately. She made him come to her office on Thursday evening and told him he would not leave until he got the transformation right.

At ten that night she had to accompany him back to the tower and told him she would see him the next day.

Harry wondered why did she do that to herself, because she had looked so tired, even more tired than Harry himself, a few strands of hair coming loose and her eyes red rimmed. The mouse, of course, had not seen any transformation from Harry’s hand.

McGonagall angry was something that gave pause even to the twins, and _they_ were fearless. So the next day Harry remembered to bring his wand and drew it out without prompting and tapped the mouse with it and of course absolutely nothing happened. Nothing on Thursday and nothing on Friday and nothing for half the afternoon on Saturday until McGonagall released him so he could go to Quidditch practice and then she pretended to forget all about it.

Harry was glad, because he didn’t think candlestick’s lives were particularly enjoyable, not for a mouse at least. A fork, maybe, a fork would be all right with being turned in to a candlestick, but not a poor innocent mouse.

***

Detention with Severus was good, even if they couldn’t have it as often as Harry would like. When Severus helped him with his wandwork it was suddenly easier, and he had also started smuggling muggle books for Harry.

“How did the VHS work at home?” asked Harry. “Everyone says it couldn’t work in a magical house, but it did.”

“It took me the better part of a whole bloody day to set it up” Severus snarled back in retrospective frustration. “You need to reverse _repello muggletum_ and cast it in a sphere that surrounds the device, but at the same time make sure this spell doesn’t interact with any others charms that are layering the house.”

Harry understood enough to know his ignorance.

“But then, how can you move it?”

“You can’t. The setting is very delicate and for the whole thing to work there has to be a perfect balance. Otherwise the protective _repello_ will give in and the device will stop working.”

Harry drank a bit more of his tisane. Severus had stopped giving him tea because he was worried by the shadows under Harry’s eyes. So now it was soothing herbal infusions absolutely caffeine-free. Instead of sugar he put a spoonful of some white honey from an almost empty jar.

“But I used my Walkman all the time. Everywhere.”

Severus chuckled. It was something rarely seen and Harry had been witness to most of his laughs.

“Believe me, we were both surprised. You were only supposed to use it when we took you on excursions.”

“But it couldn’t have been me” Harry argued, although with no heat. Severus’ tisanes took all the hot anger and left only calm warmth. “I am not good at magic.”

“Harry, you are a wizard and you are good at magic.” Severus spoke as it were an obvious fact, like Harry needing glasses or the uncombable nature of his hair.

“Tell that to McGonagall.” Or Flickwit. Or Sinistra. Or… well Lockhart had no ground to complain.

“You are a bad student” Severus went on. “And that is not entirely your fault. You are good in Potions, even if you tend to get distracted and need extra time.”

“It’s just that I have to measure everything twice because I will forget that I had already done it, or what step I was on” Harry explained. “It would be easier if I could listen to some music.”

“And how is Herbology?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s fine. Just… It feels disconnected, you know? Sprout doesn’t tell us anything interesting. We tend the plants but we don’t know what they mean or their use and then we use them here in potions and no one tells us how they got here, if they had to be dried or boiled or what.”

Severus pondered this, biting his lip, and made a note to revise the curriculum when he had time (ha!). Harry left his office with a new book secreted under his robes.

***

Sometimes, when Harry sung to himself, a soft instrumental accompaniment could be heard, like a small cloud of notes surrounding him. But lately he hadn’t felt much like singing so no one discovered this.

***

Quirinus Quirrell could count himself lucky at having died in the vault, because Severus had already picked the painful poison that would give him an excruciatingly slow death and he had planned how he would sneak in to the infirmary to administer it and even where to dump the body. But he had died and Severus didn’t have to do any of that. He only kept the sneaking part so he could visit Harry and reassure himself that he was all right, he was fine, he was fine. He was alive and breathing slowly and deeply, his brave little boy.

He still had the poison with him. He could give it to Lockhart. He could stand over him as the pompous imbecile writhed on the floor sweating blood and Severus could kneel by his side and oh so softly ask “Are you sure, Gilderoy? Are you absolutely sure that _you_ found out the way to clean a nest of stingy buzzsnaps?” And then Severus would hit him with a rolled up copy of _Magical Review_ and he would force feed him the article in which Remus explained how to do just that.

“Ah! You look cheerful today my dear Severus. The spirit of the holiday if affecting you, eh?”

Severus stared at the buffoon. He could grab one of the garishly decorated pink cupcakes and smother him with it.  Madame Hooch was looking at him and mouthing _do it, do it_.

***

“Just so you all know” said Martina Lesiak, current Slytherin Head Girl, to the gathered students in the common room. “Professor Snape says love potions are _immoral_ and their use is equal to _rape_ and he will personally poison any fool who tries to use one, special mention to McNair.”

“He did not say that!” cried McNair the eldest (seventh year).

Lesiak turned around the piece of parchment she was reading from for the room to see. McNair´s name was capitalized and underlined.

“Damn, and here I was hoping he would kill that Lockhart fool himself” bemoaned Suruchi Subadar. “He is getting soft.”

“He has agreed to participate in the duel club” said Marcus Flint. “Maybe he will hit him with a balding curse.”

“ _Anyway_ ” continued Martina Lesiak. “He says that if you have to use a love potion and you are incapable of convincing and/or seducing someone you are no better than a rejected Dumstrang student and a shame to all Slytherins.”

***

Harry didn´t understand why everybody (even Ron, come on) was freaking out like that. The whispers returned with full force and everybody was acting as if Harry had loosened his jaws and eaten a student´s head in a single bite.

All he had done was care for an animal. Harry liked animals. He was good with them. That poor snake was probably just frightened and he had managed to calm her down. It is not easy to come to life sudden and violently and already an adult and in the middle of a room of screaming people.

They should be focusing on the madman attacking students, no on the schoolboy good with animals. Jeez.

***

If Severus weren’t afraid of what he could reveal in a state of inebriation, he would go find a pub and get completely plastered. Or maybe he would go to _The Lounge_ and drink one of their expensive bottles all by himself and then fuck a girl and a boy. It seemed like the kind of thing you do when you want to be outside yourself.

But he couldn’t afford to do any of that, and it didn’t sound very pleasant in any case. All he did was pop to Spinner’s End and listen to “Stairway to Heaven” on repeat for the whole length of Saturday.

Harry was a parselmouth. Harry could do something that the Dark Lord could do too. Severus had been right when he only had suspicions and guesses. He had been right even though he still didn’t understand the whole plan. He had nothing, really, other than the knowledge that Dumbledore’s proclamations of caring for Harry’s safety conflicted with his desire to destroy Voldemort forever. He had the intuition that there would be more demands piled over Harry, and he had such narrow shoulders!

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord…_

Maybe all those dark wizards had been right and Harry would have a power over the dark arts to rival Voldemort’s. A weapon to be groomed and released at the right moment. Or maybe it was something else, a sort of connection. He had lived when others had died, he had lived and so did Voldemort…

_Neither can live while the other survives…_

Lily had been made of light. A world without Harry would be darker no matter what.

Voldemort was nothing but the vomit of the cesspool that was the wizarding world. If he was taken down, in fifty years there would be someone just like him stepping in. It wasn’t about the man, it was about the society that produced him.

In between all this, Severus only missed Remus for an hour and a half. He did not allow himself to miss him for longer than that each week.

***

The Hufflepuffs were whispering and throwing Harry nasty looks after Justin’s accident. Everybody was doing that, but the Hufflepuffs were more obvious about it.

Ron picked up a fight to defend Harry’s honour and he got detention. But Ron was quickly starting to care less and less about detentions. He said he was acquiring quite a lot of skills, actually, that he hoped they would serve him one day, just as the twins' muggle lockpicking had come in handy.

(The most popular punishment was cleaning something by hand and Ron was becoming quite adept at smuggling his wand and applying cleaning charms undetected. Nonverbally and with minimal wand movement).

The twins took it all as a joke and Harry wasn’t laughing, exactly, but it was nice to see that someone could.

***

“So we reckon that Draco is behind all this” said Harry, blowing over the still hot tisane. He was sitting on the counter, his heels softly knocking against a cupboard.

“He isn’t” said Severus over the table of ingredients. By the smell, he was brewing something similar to Wolfsbane, or possibly a Wofsbane variation, which was strange.

“But he is strutting around and the sign said _the Heir of Slytherin._ ”

“Harry, I assure you Draco Malfoy is not the heir of Slytherin.”

“How do you know?”

Severus finished cutting the aconite with his scalpel before leaning back and looking at Harry directly.

“I know.”

“That’s not answer.”

“Harry, eat a biscuit.”

Harry ate a dinosaur-shaped biscuit but he kept staring at Severus who ignored him for the next fifteen minutes.

“You can’t tell absolutely anyone. Not Miss Granger, not Mister Weasley and certainly not Malfoy, understand? Very few people know this and if you were to advertise it, it could easily be tracked down to me.”

Harry nodded his head seriously. He could keep a secret, as evidenced by the fact that everybody thought Snape and he hated each other.

Even if it was such a magnificent, juicy secret. Something glorious that Harry felt should be proclaimed from the Astronomy tower.

“Not. A. Word.”

“But… does he know?”

“Draco? I really can’t say. It is not something that Lucius admits easily.”

So the Malfoys weren’t as pureblooded as they liked people to believe. The Malfoys had, in fact, married a few half-bloods and even the occasional ambitious muggle.

Lucius Malfoy had a third cousin who was a _muggle_. Not a squib, but the son of one. He was in politics, unsurprisingly.

It was such a magnificent secret that Harry completely forgot to ask again how could Severus know.

***

Severus had gotten him “The Count of Monte Cristo”. Harry took the covers out of the book and very, very, carefully divided it into more manageable packages of a hundred pages or so. That way he could put the pages inside the History of Magic book and it would look like he was paying attention in a class where no one, not even Hermione, could keep focus for long.

He was only going to do it in that class. And maybe Defence Against the Dark Arts because he wouldn’t be missing anything important what with Lockhart talking exclusively of his adventures. It was two hours during which Harry could be somewhere else and let his mind wander as much as he wanted.

But then everybody was acting as if he spent his free time murdering people. The Hufflepuffs avoided him as if he were contagious. People said he had been wild last year, that he had gotten his blood thirst from Remus, that Lord Voldemort (not a lord for God’s sake!) had only targeted him because he knew Harry was going to be even worse. And whenever Harry tried to give this the answer it deserved, McGonagall punished him and the nearest Gryffindor.

So of course reading how Edmon Dantes prepared to wreck everyone was way more tempting that paying attention to his surroundings. Harry completely abandoned all the classes that required some sort of wandwork and spent his time reading. Physically in class, yes, but reading.

Sometimes he scribbled something in a diary he had found, to keep the illusion that he was paying attention. The diary answered back, which as far as Harry knew was perfectly normal behaviour for magical stationery. There was a singing hat and that made much less sense.

And then they lost Hermione. Most people stopped thinking Harry was behind the monster, but he didn’t care about what they thought, he cared only about his friend, lying on a bed in the infirmary.  

***

“The mass of the transformed object remains the same through the spell” Harry scribbled.

_What?_

_No._

_Equal mass and density facilitate the transfiguration, but they don’t limit it._

“Nobody asked you, Tom” wrote Harry with deliberate good handwriting which was equivalent to careful and slow enunciation in his mind, like Severus did when he was dismissing someone or pointing their stupidity.

_You should ask me! Transfigurations is a very ~~delicate matter and~~_

_~~Are you writing on top of my words?~~ _

_Stop it._

_ Stop it. _

“You stop it, or I will fill this diary with drawings of dicks.”

_You wouldn’t dare._

“Try me.”

_ You wouldn’t dare _ _. You use words like “folly” and “loathsome”. You would not engage in such childish displays._

“Just don’t give me a reason to.”

***

“Write, write, write. Look at how I write in class. I am taking notes.”

_You could take real notes._

“You are blessed with no ears, Tom, otherwise you would know the pointlessness of this class.”

_Is it DADA again?_

“He is telling us about how he defeated a banshee in a song contest.”

… _I don’t think that’s possible._

“That’s enough note-taking for me. I am going to read for a while, talk to you later.”

***

“I think Eugenie is a lesbian.”

_Who is Eugenie? Is that Ginny?_

“She is Danglars’ daughter.”

_What house is she in?_

“None. She is from the book I told you about.”

Harry scratched his forehead as he re-read the quickly vanishing lines.

“Wait. Do you know Ginny?”

***

Harry was a selfish idiot and he would never forgive himself for not acting earlier. He _had_ noticed that Ginny wasn’t particularly happy in Hogwarts, but he hadn’t drawn the connection or if he did, he didn’t think it significant and now she had gone missing together with the stupid sassy diary.

Of course it could be argued that Harry, not being thirteen yet, had no business worrying about these matters and it was not his responsibility. But Harry would argue back and say that with Hermione petrified in the infirmary the role of sensible person obviously fell to him.

He was so sensible, in fact, that he even thought of bringing adult supervision in their search and rescue party.  He would much rather have Severus with them, but he understood it couldn’t be. It would look really weird if he went to ask for his help rather than the Head of his House. Lockhart was the DADA teacher after all, he would do. McGonagall would have no ground to be as angry as last year.

***

The point of adult supervision was to have them there and _supervise_. No one expected him to do anything beyond maybe reaching for something high.

And now, look at what he had done. Ron was injured and he had broken his wand and now Lockhart was the one who needed supervision.

Harry offered Ron his wand, but he said he would be fine with Lockhart’s. So in Harry went, armed with a silly stick that sometimes shot sparks and a rock he had taken from the small cave-in, to the lair of the monster.

***

Once it became evident that the pretty boy manifestation was behind Ginny and the attacks, Harry didn’t lose any time in killing it with extreme prejudice.

The basilisk helped. The basilisk appreciated Harry’s manners much more that Tom Marvolo’s orders.

Tom Marvolo. Harry was right, _he was no lord_.

“What have you been eating?” Harry asked the basilisk. He had his eyes closed so he didn’t know what exactly he was petting, but there was something cold and scaly under his hand and Harry would be damned if he left the opportunity to pet an animal pass.

The basilisk had been eating rats and lizards, mostly. He, oh, sorry, It, seemed to be responsible for a pest free Hogwarts.

“It must be lonely. Do you feel lonely?”

_“What is lonely.”_

“Lonely is when you wish you had someone else with you.”

_“Hungry?”_

“No. Lonely. You wish you had someone to talk to and be with. Like the man of the diary. Or Ginny. Or Me.”

The basilisk pondered the question. It had been hatched from an egg laid by an old cock just before his death in a clear night with the full moon. It knew neither father nor mother. It required no mate.

“ _Not lonely._ ”

“Oh, I am very glad”. He really was. The thought of the poor creature roaming the tunnels and pipes for a thousand years was quite sad.

“Are you bored?” that was the obvious next question.  “Does it get boring?”

“ _Boring?_ ”

“Boring is when you don’t know if you are hungry or sleepy and you don’t know what to do but you wished you could do something.”

“ _Ah. Boring. Yes. It gets boring._ ” The basilisk sounded actually pretty chirpy right now. Happy at its understanding. “ _I am bored!_ ”

Sometimes, though, It was less bored. It could move through the pipes and listen to the going-ons of the school. But yes, when the other boy had come it hadn’t been boring. He showed It a different tunnel and It got the opportunity to stretch. It was nice. And now he had done it again.

Explaining that it is not okay to entertain yourself killing students was a bit hard. The basilisk only knew itself and the three males who had come to talk to him, plus Ginny. Everything else was prey.

Harry tried to impress the point that It either stopped attacking students or It would be killed pretty soon. That would be bad.

“ _WHO COMES TO KILL ME?_ ”

“I don’t know. Wizards.”

“ _I KILL THEM FIRST. I EAT THEM_ ”

“No, no, no. See, you can’t do that. There will be many and one may sneak on you and hurt you.”

“ _I KILL THEM ALL_ ”

Oh, dear. This was _not_ working.

“But, but… If you kill them all everybody will go away. Then it will become really boring.”

“ _They will go?_ ”

“Yes. All the children you like to listen to. We will all go somewhere else. You will hear nothing.”

The basilisk thought about it. It didn’t really understand what the humans said, but sometimes there was laughter and that was nice. And near the winter solstice there were songs. Songs were nice to listen to, even if it was just one human singing something to themselves. Songs made the mind go a pleasant feather white.

“ _I kill only half of them_ ”, It offered magnanimously.

“No, I think you kill no human at all. But you can eat all the rats you want.”

“ _They are tasty._ ”

“I am sure they are. I am told all rodents are.” Harry agreed, remembering his childhood conversations with Mrs. K.

It was agreed that the basilisk could just go on as usual and didn’t have to kill anyone unless they came to Its chambers, which would be rude. It promised to ask, anyway, in case it was Harry or a Harry-like human. The basilisk had enjoyed their chat.

“There is choir practice every Wednesday and Sunday evening. That’s every four and three days. They meet in the little room left of the Great Hall.”

That was a magnificent parting gift. The basilisk was enormously pleased.

***

The hearing for Harry’s custody was scheduled for the end of June.

It was a disaster. Harry felt sick.

It ought to had been a pretty simple process where a judge and two acolytes reviewed the petition and asked Harry whether he wanted to go with the Weasleys or not. Hermione had made flashcards for everyone despite having being petrified until the week before.

Instead what they found was a hostile judge, an acolyte that was insane and another one who was plainly bored. They proceeded to ask the Weasleys over every minute thing in their lives, scouring for evidence of their bad parenting. They brought up Arthur’s muggle fascination (as if that were somehow bad), and the twins numerous transgressions (that according to Hermione should not be a matter of public record since they happened in school). They even suspected Ginny’s kidnapping and Harry felt his stomach clench.

He had destroyed the diary. Nobody knew it had been her. She had been possessed anyway. By Voldemort! Ginny was completely innocent (Dumbledore agreed). But even so, nobody knew, not even that much.

Why would they act as if Ginny was somehow to blame, then? 

To top it all, the insane acolyte pointed at their financial trouble and accused them of wanting Harry just to get access to his inheritance.

Harry would gladly give them everything in his parent’s vault just for the hug Mrs. Weasley gave him last summer. He didn’t say any of that, though, because he had learned well enough how the Ministry twisted his words.

The court deliberated for less than ten seconds and ruled against.

“It’s all right” Harry said quickly to Ron and Mrs. Weasley. “I appreciate it.” At the very least, they had given Harry enough hope that he managed to survive another year in school without going crazy. They gave him something to clung to. He swallowed, and his voice barely wavered. He was becoming quite good at pushing grief down. “Dumbledore is going to have another talk with the Dursleys, it will be fine, really.”

And then.

“Now, for the request for Harry Potter’s fostering, number 18000254/M326” said the bored acolyte turning to a second pile of documents in front of her. “The court will now interview Mr. Lucius Malfoy.”

***

If they gave him to the Malfoys, Harry would kill himself.

He knew a lot about poisons, he could do it.

Maybe after killing them, too.

No wonder they kept asking about Ginny. Whose diary had that been, eh? Eh?

For all the gods’ sake. Lucius Malfoy used to be a deatheater!

But it obviously didn’t matter when you had hair as beautiful as his. He charmed the tribunal with his eloquence and assertions of wealth, thus proving he only had Harry’s best interests at heart. Look at how the poor boy was behaving, after being with a werewolf and then with muggles. He would benefit so much from the right environment. Stability. Education. All things Lucius Malfoy could provide and that he now felt was his duty to offer to the unfortunate orphan.

Harry had to excuse himself to go to the bathroom and throw up and maybe drown himself.

He rinsed his mouth on the sink and splashed some cold water over his face, which did nothing to abate the pounding on his temples. In a minute, he would start repeating to himself that he could survive it, like a mantra, until his brain believed it. Just as he had done last summer.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He did not looked convinced.

Standing behind him was Draco Malfoy staring at Harry’s reflection. Draco with his pale pointy face. Draco who called Hermione a mudblood.

They hadn’t talked with Bill the accomplished curse-breaker, or Charlie the expert dragon carer and athlete, or Outstanding-on-every-exam Percy. But they would now interview Draco.

Harry wasn’t above acknowledging the virtues of his enemies. Draco could be charming. He was polite and eloquent when he wanted to be. Just as he had a way to hurt you with his words that no other Slytherin possessed.

***

If there ever was a convenient time for Draco to debut with some mental disorder, this was definitely it. Harry couldn’t believe it, but he did not question it either. He simply nodded and called himself lucky.

Dumbledore strolled in soon after the case was settled. He had a few words with the tribunal by the water fountain and ensured there would be no other cases requesting Harry’s custody, which was a blessing given that the court was completely mental. He also personally accompanied Harry to talk to the Dursleys and guaranteed that Harry would be treated appropriately during summer. Harry felt himself start to sweat with relief when before he had barely been able to breath and thought his heart might have stopped beating. Wonderful Dumbledore coming to his rescue. Hagrid was right, Dumbledore was the greatest man.

What a pity was his messy brain, though, always with intruding thoughts. Why would he now go and think of Lady Tremaine? Harry didn’t even liked _Cinderella_ that much. He had only watched it a couple of times because some brainless relative of Olivia gave her the film as a birthday present.

(Olivia lived for _The Lion King_ and had the strangest crush on Scar. They often played stories in which Scar found redemption and his own kingdom.)

And yet he thought of her now, Lady Tremaine, sweetly assuring Cinderella she could go to the ball, as long as she finished her duties. And Cinderella believed her.

***

“What the hell possessed you to say that?”

Lucius had been perfectly calmed and controlled as they exited the courthouse and went back to the manor. Now, he roared.

“Draco, mon cheri, qu'est-ce qui t'a pris?” asked his mother.

He wished he could answer them, but he didn’t know himself. He wished he could say he had been hit by a _confundo_. Granger or any of the Weasleys could had casted it. But Draco knew it wasn’t true because everything had felt perfectly clear and defined. As if it were more real than the rest of real life, if that made sense.

Of course silence wasn’t an acceptable answer and his father struck him across the cheek.

“Don’t be quiet, now. What the hell was that?”

What had it been?

“I was… I only told them the truth” said Draco. This was true, too. He was being very honest today. He had just said that no, he would not particularly welcome Potter to his house and he didn’t think his father cared for or wanted him other than as political leverage.

“Quel dommage, Draco! Je suis très déçue.”

“Maman, je ne sais pas ce qu-“

His father slapped him again.

He had expected that. Not that he had planned for what would happen today, because he hadn’t. But Draco knew he had earned it and he was prepared to receive it.

Draco was no coward. He was certainly not afraid of his father. He took whatever he gave him and he received the beating with no word of protest because he understood that it was well deserved. Draco was a dutiful son.

Afterwards, Lucius forbade Narcissa from casting any healing charms on Draco, said the sting would remind him the following days of his misbehavior.

Draco had not expected that. But then again, he had never committed such a grave transgression.

He had thought, naively perhaps, that this would be it. Father had administered his punishment, Draco would hurt for a few days, normalcy would return as the black turned to blue and then to yellow and then to white.

He hadn’t considered that his father saw it not like misbehavior but as a betrayal. That once he had struck him like this it was easy to do it again for lesser reasons. That the bruises were a constant reminder of what Draco had done and so Lucius punished him again.

But it was all right. Draco was an only child in a big house. He was accustomed to solitude. Most days he only saw his parents during meals, and rarely for all of them. It was easy to make himself scarce for most of the time and work to get back his father’s approval when he was in his presence. Once he looked like himself again it would be even easier to be the son his father desired.

Draco was a dutiful son who had undergone a moment of madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry is thinking of the song "Gimme Danger" by The Stooges.  
> Eugenie Danglars is a character in "The Count of Monte Cristo." Critics disagree on whether or not she is a lesbian. Eugenie crossdresses as a man and elopes with her good friend Louise in the best gal pal tradition.  
> Narcissa asks Draco what has he done and says she is dissapointed in him. Draco begins to say he doesn't know before Lucius interrupts. I can't guarantee that the French is 100% correct.
> 
> Edit: I can guarantee it now because some wonderful readers offered correction. Twenty points to them! :) :) :)


	3. Dogs don’t see in black and white, it’s more like a scale of grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Azkaban and its depressing effect. But this is a better chapter to cleanse the last one.

The key to surviving Azkaban was to stop feeling all together. Make yourself one with the cold stone of the cells. That way the dementors couldn’t steal the feelings from you and you didn’t go mad, or not too mad.

At least, that was Sirius’ strategy. A few cells down to the left his cousin Bella had opted for letting pure rage carry her through the years, repeating again and again all the evil things she had done and the ones that she would do when she got out (which she had no doubt it would happen). Fury could protect you. Fury could take over so that you felt nothing else. It barely fed the dementors so you could experience it fully, a sort of irate madness that brought you a small measure of satisfaction at the thought of burning the world and you in it.

But that was only for the hard and tough ones. The people who, like Sirius, were there for life and the ones who had made it past the one year mark.

It was agreed that if you didn’t die on your third year, nothing would kill you. After three years you had learned to eat without hunger and drink without thirst and live with no sleep.

Usually people simply fell in to despair and stopped eating and talking and moving and simply wished for death to come, too tired to go look for it themselves.

Azkaban was quiet, except for Bella and occasionally Rabastan and Elisia. It was also pretty boring. It had to be. Sirius used to care about the clouds in the window of his cell, or the noise of the storm in the sea. But the dementors took that.

It had been so long since he allowed himself to feel something, but now despite the heavy presence of dementors all around him Sirius felt surprise.

And a new kind of despair.

And sadness.

And denial.

Moony was dragged to the cell in front of him. They had been friends, after all. The dementors expected they would have a lot to share.

***

Two things happened. Two very important, life-changing things.

Remus didn’t want to talk to Sirius. At first he simply sat in his cell with his back to him. When the place started to get to him he looked at Sirius and cursed him for his betrayal.

This was not one of the things. 

The food in Azkaban wasn’t bad, considering everything else. It was enough to support an adult and keep them alive and healthy for years if they managed to eat it all, which rarely happened. Sirius suspected they enjoyed picking up half eaten dishes. For many, the image of food had become intolerable and the thought of eating it was unbearable, yet seeing that you didn’t eat it all also felt like a failure. Too weak to eat and too weak to kill yourself. Sirius had learned to eat with his eyes closed, mechanically, until he couldn’t find another spoonful in the dish. It was easier, then, to keep himself alive.

Elisia’s cell was in front and to the left. Sirius had spied her eating from the bowl like a dog, on all fours and big gulps. She ate fast and she ate all, and always ended with a look of defiance.

There was food. But there was nothing to treat lycanthropy. Sirius saw as his friend transformed with the first full moon, how he writhed in pain, how his screams turned in to howls.

Moony had explained, a lifetime ago when they were all children in their second year, how it felt during the transformation. It was like the worst kind of toothache you could imagine. That sounded a bit silly, but he elaborated. It was a pain and an urge that didn’t let you rest and didn’t let you think and all you wanted was for it to stop. If there was someone with you, you would lash out at them because even the faint sound of their heartbeat was torture. If there was no one else, the beast turned against itself. Pain would distract you from the agony of the moon.

Animals, too, animals could distract you from the curse. Remus had discovered that sometimes a cat came to the Shrieking Shack and seemed undisturbed by the wolf. That was what convinced them to try to become animagus. The wolf didn’t hurt other animals and was soothed by their presence.

It felt natural. When Sirius saw the wolf scratching and throwing itself against the wall and the bars, when he saw the blood starting to run, he didn’t think about it. He transformed.

This was one of the two life-changing discoveries of Azkaban.

Sirius transformed and so did the world.

There was colour.

Dogs see in grey, but also blue and a really strange array of yellows Sirius could never describe it properly. There had always been some colour there, but Sirius had completely forgotten about it and now he _saw_. He had also forgotten about smells and he was hit suddenly with a thousand and one different calls to his nose. There was his own smell, and the smell of the friend in front, and his blood, and the stone, the iron of the bars, the salt of the sea, the sweat and piss from Elisia’s cell, the reek in Rabastan’s, the milky smell of Bellatrix, the moss growing on the stone, the wood of a door and the rust on the nails.

There was a world. Sirius was awake and he was experiencing a world he had forgotten.

He whined at Moony and was ignored, but by the end of the night the wolf seemed to notice him and recognized him. He was less distressed.

In the morning Sirius didn’t turn back to human. Dementors were blind and they wouldn’t know. They couldn’t hurt him as much when he was an animal. He could keep the colours and the smells and the feelings and a bit of his mind.

***

Remus talked to him, at last. He spoke with broken sentences from the floor of his cell.

He was strong. He was fighting back the dementors. He would not be one to give to despair and let himself die. He wouldn’t because Remus’ worst thoughts were all about what was happening outside and about the child he couldn’t protect anymore.

Remus talked of a child that was hungry and the vision of a purple ring that haunted him.

You could not feel anything like happiness in Azkaban. But Sirius listened in dog form, laying down mirroring his friend’s posture. He listened how Harry had been rescued and had been safe and loved and Sirius felt his heartbeat increase. He felt, like only dogs feel, joy. Few things have such intensity.

Remus could only speak through anguish. How scared Harry must had been. How Remus had failed, failed, failed… Remus regretted. He regretted… He was the usurper. He had taken James’ role. He let Harry call him Dad.

What Sirius heard was: Harry got to call someone Dad. He did not grow an orphan. He knew he was loved.

This was the effect of Azkaban. Remus regretted what Sirius knew was the biggest gift James could ever receive. He knew that James would happily let himself be erased, be forgotten and turned in to nothing, if it meant that Harry didn’t grow feeling his absence.

Sirius knew this because he was his godfather. He had made a promise to James. _Please, let my child be happy. If something happens to us, don’t let him mourn us. Don’t let him grow up with the dead._

And how had Sirius failed that promise.

But Moony hadn’t. He fulfilled it.

Sirius was starting to think much clearer.

***

Remus survived the first year in Azkaban.

Each transformation weakened his body, but the wolf that consumed him also protected him. The wolf that three days before the moon and three days after made itself known, hiding behind the gold of Remus’ pupils. The wolf gave him a razor’s edge. There was pain in it but pain was good in here, it was sweet, it brought something that was the opposite of numbness.

On those days, he believed Sirius when he told him about Wormtail. On those days he ate his ration and he threw his long arm across the bars of his cell to the one besides him and ate the remains of Travers’ food.

Sirius hadn’t heard Travers speak in two years, maybe three. If he objected to the food theft, he only had to say so.

One week of every four, Remus had a fighting chance.

***

Three weeks out of four Remus lived in shadows and fog. He could only think of his failure protecting Harry. He could only think of the things said during the trial where he was present but not allowed to speak. How he was a monster. How he had stolen Harry and took him away from his birth right.

His birth right. Like Aurora’s. And the night she returned to the castle, the green light got her. Harry had been so scared by the green light. What if it got him, too?

***

Remus was weakened and tired and spent a lot of time surrounded by the worst kind of repetitive intrusive thoughts that devoured all. Sirius lived in a limbo, half-feeling and half-thinking and neither animal nor human. He was starting to hate the terribly bland food they were brought every day. He ached for something with flavour and a good smell.

Nevertheless, they were the two less insane inmates of the whole prison.

Until there was a new arrival, that is. Hogwarts’ gamekeeper.

(Harry was in Hogwarts.)

They cajoled and enticed and taunted and pulled every trick and charm of the Marauders until they managed to make Hagrid speak.

Harry was in Hogwarts. So was someone calling himself The Heir of Slytherin. There was a monster roaming around the school. People thought it was Hagrid, but it wasn’t him.

Now everyone in the prison perked up. They threatened and wheedled and threw everything they had. Their howls resonated in the prison’s walls and rose in a wave of emotion so strong that it took the dementors a while before they could devour it all.

Hagrid was removed from the prison. Nobody knew what that meant. Maybe they had found it wasn’t him, after all, the one with the monster. Every deatheater in the building had said so. Over a dozen raving witnesses that would testify that The Heir of Slytherin could not be a half-breed. Or maybe he had died already. He had soon become quiet and morose after a week.

Harry was still in Hogwarts.

There was a monster in Hogwarts.

Even with minds splits between animal and human, the thought was easy to chase.

This was the second life-changing event. It was just as important as the first.

***

It was raining. That was good, Sirius had observed that dementors were not fans of the rain. They would go out, if they had to, but heavy rain soaked their cloaks and limited their movement, and it disguised smells and sounds.

“Their screams, haha, their screams my dear, scream, no one will hear you, no one will come, none of your friends, hahaha, now the wife, poor little wife, cut her fingers, cut her eyes, CRUCIO! Cruciocruciocruciocrucio. For the Dark Lord. You don’t says his name, you don’t sully his name with your mud tongue.”

When it rained, they retreated and the prison belonged to the inmates. Tonight Bellatrix was talking even more than usual. Rabastan had laughed twice.

It was raining, but clouds did nothing against the moon. It was something that thirteen year old Peter had found very unfair. Remus transformed even when the moon wasn’t visible.

“Yes, yes, yes, scream, little pet, let me hear you scream, ahahaha.”

Remus was starting to transform and unlike in the school, here he didn’t try to quiet down his screams of pain. There was no point in being ashamed or embarrassed in Azkaban and screaming felt good.

When Sirius transformed, he was a big dog. But not so big that he couldn’t squeeze through the bars of the cells. He only required the will to do it. He was used to ignoring the pain.

Getting Moony out would be harder. The wolf was big. Really big. He was thinking maybe he could find something to bend the bars and make a space big enough for the wolf to pass. He would have to transform back to dog right away, though. Or if they were lucky, perhaps he could find the keys somewhere nearby.

“All the screams of the mud-bloods, they SCREAM. And the traitors. The traitors will burn and the traitors will bleed. Blood traitors. Take their blood, leave them dry.”

Sirius needn’t have bothered thinking an elaborate plan after all. The cell’s doors were weak. Very few people had the will to escape so the doors didn’t have to withstand much. These doors in particular had withheld the onslaughts of an adult werewolf for over a year. The thick iron frame was showing some bumps and bends in a few places. Sirius pulled and the wolf pushed, dashing madly at him, and the whole thing was torn from the wall.

There was a howl. Not from the wolf, not from Remus, who simply growled at Sirius, but from the rest of the prisoners who were now dragging themselves to the doors and pressing their faces in the bars to see.

Sirius had transformed back and just in time. The wolf sniffed at him with interest and didn’t attack him. Most importantly, Sirius felt more confident in this form.

After that, it was simply a matter of herding Moony down the stairs and through an inner patio to the main gate. All the doors were unlocked. There were no other barriers of traps. What for? People who don’t have the will to live don’t have the will to move, to escape, to act.

Just like that, they were outside.

***

Azkaban was warded from apparating and it had muggle-repelling charms as well as being unplottable. Not a place easy to access or leave. It had, however, a Charon boat. A small thing made of dark wood tied to the shore with a thin silver chain. Once a week the dementors let it loose and the boat went to the mainland and returned a day later with supplies.

It was not the same boat in which Sirius had been brought. There was another, larger one, somewhere in the coast of Scotland for the transport of prisoners. It was the one the Ministry officials rode every five years or so to pass inspection of the prison. They usually left before two hours had gone.

This boat was regarded as too small to hold any occupants. But Sirius managed to push Moony in just fine. The chain burned when Sirius removed it, a flameless burn like that of acid. But that was nothing. He shook his hand, or was it his paw? And he pushed the boat in the water and jumped in.

It _was_ small. He had to press himself against Moony’s flank, and the boat was half sunk in the water.

But it was enough.

***

Remus woke confused and in pain. He had a dry mouth, his joints ached and his throat was sore as if he had been exposed to the cold and humidity he were starting to get a cold. He opened his eyes to the vison of sand and a grey sea. As he slowly sat up he realized he was naked.

Remus had been a werewolf since he was five years old. Waking up naked and confused was nothing new. Although this time it was even more perplexing than usual.

Sirius was to his right, naked too and smiling, and Remus couldn’t believe he had gotten to shag him and he couldn’t remember. Also, Sirius wasn’t as handsome as he used to be and he was sporting an unkempt beard when he had always been very well groomed.

Wait. Sirius was a traitor. He killed Peter. He was sent to Azkaban. Only Remus remained to mourn and remember, and later with Snape to raise Harry and ensure he grew up happy.

Why were they on a beach?

“Remember that time McGonagall gave us detention and she locked us in a classroom but we climbed three floors down the wall and she wouldn’t believe Filch when he said he had seen us throwing snowballs by the Quidditch field?” Sirius was leaning back on his arms, his face up to the sun. “She was so angry! She is going to blow up something when she hears.”

“Sirius, what-?”

“We broke out of Azkaban.” Sirius closed his eyes. The wind was pushing his hair back. Long and matted and black still. “We got out on a tiny boat that filled with water. It was windy and raining and we capsized” he stopped to push a strand of hair away from his mouth. “Then we swam to the coast.”

It was cold. The sea wind harsher than anything the sun could do to warm them.

“Is there any reason for our nudeness?” asked Remus. Not that it was very important, but he wondered.

“You shouldn’t sleep in wet clothes.” Sirius said with a natural air.

Their prisoner robes had indeed been laid out to dry on some bushes over the beach line.

“You did not kill Peter.”

“I wish I had.”

“He betrayed them.”

“Yes.”

“I am still angry with you” said Remus getting up. He was hungry. He hadn’t felt hungry in a while. His toes were getting cold. “Now let’s go find Harry.”

“Good.” Sirius smiled. There was electricity in his eyes, a spark coming back.

***

“But, really, McGonagall is gonna be sooo mad.”

 

“Remus, she is going to be _Mad_ Gonagall.”

 


	4. The third year

Ron wrote to Harry to reassure him that he shouldn’t be upset about the trial. After seeing Malfoy, it had become very obvious why the court was so hostile. Harry still felt terrible about the things they had said about the Weasleys, but Ron said no one really minded (which Harry didn’t believe) and that the twins were pretty proud of being such well known pranksters, having obviously surpassed something called Marauders (this Harry did believe). Anyway, Mr. Weasley had won some unexpected money and they would all be going to Egypt to visit Bill, but Ron wanted to check that Harry was being treated well.

He was. Dumbledore had worked his magic (ha! magic) and talked to the Dursleys. He was allowed out of the room and ate decently, even if he had to do it in the kitchen. His cousin Dudley fluctuated between trying to scare Harry and being scared of his potential magic, but after having been so close to going to the Malfoys Harry had absolutely no complaints.

And he could listen to music as much as he wanted to, as long as he remembered to buy extra batteries whenever he was out.

***

Harry didn’t pay much attention to the neighbours, but his aunt did. She observed, like a hawk perched on a high rock, the group of people dressed in purple and green that moved into the house across the street. She kept watch until Vernon called her to come see the news which had the morbid story of two dangerous felons escaped from a prison.

One of them was Harry’s dad and Harry couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it if it weren’t for the now obvious increased security cordon around him. Security against who Harry wasn’t sure.

***

“Okay, but you couldn’t have done it all by yourself.” Sirius had his nose buried on an empty cup of coffee, relishing the lingering smell.

“Were you always this talkative?”

“Yes. Anyway, you must have had help.”

“Help? From a wizard?” Remus sounded scandalized and Sirius felt something warm inside. Remus could be hilarious in subtle, won’t even see the end of the punch line, ways. But he was sick and he was worried and he hadn’t been up for much joking.

Sirius had. Sirius was aware that he was talking nonstop, as if he were making up for the twelve years of solitude and mad rambling. He had rolled around the first patch of grass they came across and laughed like a loon. (Remus had joined him, and he had laughed too, and got a smudge of green in his cheeks). He had walked barefoot over every new surface. He had hugged a tree. There was so much he hadn’t done during those twelve years.

“But Sirius, you must see, no respectable wizard would ever mingle with a dark creature such as myself.”

“That only eliminates the Blacks, the Malfoys and the Abbotts. No one else is truly respectable.”

Remus snorted. That was good.

***

“You” said Harry with absolute and complete earnest honesty “are a _very_ good dog.”

Sirius wagged his tail. What else could he do? Harry was scratching behind his ears and petting his flank like it was his one job in life.

Maybe it was. Maybe Harry had some sort of uncommon magical affinity with animals or something, because Sirius had gone to Privet Drive with every expectation to remain out of view and yet the moment Harry stepped out of the house he had zoomed in on him.

“The very best dog” Harry said. He was smiling and he was still petting Sirius, but his voice was a bit sad. How could there be so much joy and sadness mingled together.

“Harry! Get away from that filthy dog immediately!”

The moment the woman went back inside the house Harry was again in the garden, this time with a bowl of water for Sirius. Sirius would have turned into human then, taken Harry with him that very instant. But he had no wand and in that short interval he had spotted someone else keeping an eye on the hedge of the house. All he could do was keep pretending he was a lost dog and take the hug Harry gave him, burying his face in his flank.

***

“I saw Harry” announced Sirius back in the abandoned warehouse they were using as a base. “I know you told me not to go, but I had to see him. Remus! He looks just like James. And he is so nice! He saw me and he petted me and he looked so happy. A bit sad, too, but happy to see a dog. I noticed there were a few wizards around the house, but they didn’t suspect me, I think I may be able to sneak back, maybe pass him a message and I know we have no safehouse and no wands but- You have let me talk a lot. You are not yelling at me for going to see him.”

Remus was so pale. Azkaban had really taken a toll on his health, and the transformations without Wolfsbane or any kind of medicine left him with no energy to heal and get better. Sirius was already healing, despite their precarious situation and the scarce meals. Remus was not. He was sitting in a crate, a ragged blanket over his shoulders to keep away the chill from the wall.

“Moony, what?”

“I saw the wizards too, while you were madly risking your freedom.” Remus spoke carefully, choosing every word according to the strength he still had. “They are here for us.”

“That is understandable.”

But that wasn’t it. Remus had a wrinkled newspaper in his hands. Sirius spied a photo of himself in the cover. A wizarding newspaper then, taken from the trash of the surveillance house.

The cover and the first three pages were about them, which Sirius considered an achievement even if they were concerned with slandering the two of them. But page seven talked about the winners of a lottery and _there_ Sirius saw the third Marauder.

***

Harry’s return to school went like this:

Ron and Hermione fought incessantly over their pets.

Mr. Weasley took him aside and told him that yes, Sirius Black was going after him. But Harry wasn’t supposed to know and while the Ministry believed Black and Lupin were working together, Mr. Weasley was sure this was not the case. He urged Harry to remain safe and not put himself in danger by trying to contact Remus.

Harry saw the dementors up close in the train back to Hogwarts and he was sick at the thought of those creatures guarding prison cells. He also met the new DADA teacher who, coincidentally, was a freaking Auror.

He sat side by side with Ginny for the remainder of the trip and they shared a chocolate bar.

McGonagall took him aside and told him that yes, Sirius Black was going after him. But Harry wasn’t supposed to know and she hoped he wouldn’t do anything rash like trying to contact his step-father.

“Professor! I would never!” Harry said in earnest innocence. He saw the corner of McGonagall’s mouth twitch. “I am not reckless.”

She had called Remus his step-father. She had, perhaps, finally come to his side.

***

Draco found Potter in a side corridor near the dungeons. They were alone and Draco saw it was a wonderful opportunity. To do what, he didn’t know, but Potter was alone in a little frequented dark corridor with his back to Draco. This was the occasion to do something that would please Father.

Potter had his face to the wall, lips almost kissing the stone. He was hissing and whistling. Then he turned his head and put his ear against the wall.

“Yes. Twice a week” he said. Then he hissed some more.

Draco stared. He didn’t think he had ever seen Potter like that. Not angry and not miserable. He was almost… normal.

Except for the whistling and spitting at a random piece of wall in a dark corridor, but it was Potter, you couldn’t demand much of the boy.

“You are very welcome. Enjoy your dinner.” Potter said.

Draco left silently. His father wouldn’t be satisfied with him merely punching Potter, anyway.

***

“Hey, guys, what are you doing?”

“Hey Seamus, how was summer? We are boiling all of Harry’s belongings.”

Seamus Finnigan looked with interest at the trunk that Ron, Harry and Dean were carrying down. If it were a practical joke he thought that Harry shouldn’t be present. Harry who, it must be said, was currently dressed only in a bathrobe that may or may not belong to Neville Longbottom. He had had to roll up the sleeves because it was too big for him.

“What’s taking so long?” called Hermione from downstairs.

“Need any help?” asked Seamus. This was not pyrotechnics, but it looked like an opportunity to practice water explosions.

“Sure. Bring down the books, will ya?”

***

Hermione had stopped her fighting with Ron over her cat at Harry’s mention that this year the Ministry had gotten all of his school supplies for him. You know, in case the famous murderer whose face everybody knew came down a busy wizarding market street to kill Harry. She had stopped fighting and her face had changed.

Everything that could be safely boiled was put in a pile to be taken to the girl’s bathroom in the second floor. Everything else went to a second pile to be examined later after Hermione figured out how to remove the _inquisitors secretos_ she was sure had been put there.

“Hermione, not the broom” cried Oliver Wood.

“Yes, the broom too. Who knows what can be in the straw?”

“They are called _bristles_ , you heathen.”

Oliver managed to save Harry’s broom from the boiling pile. He spent the rest of the evening in a corner of the common room, clutching it with both arms and legs.

This opened the dam.

Hermione explained what they were doing and even showed them one of the little blackened wires she had kept from the first year in a glass jar in her potion set. At once they all threw themselves to the entertaining activity of rummaging through Harry’s stuff and seeing if they could spot any more _inquisitors_ and if they could be removed without boiling them in water.

Harry sat on an armchair with his Walkman and cassettes safe on his lap while everything else he owned was ransacked. It was almost a purifying experience, all his material belongings exposed and analysed in the open. Colin Creevey had a small fit when he discovered that Harry was reading muggle literature in his spare time. He too had read _Treasure Island_. Who was Harry’s favourite character? Colin’s was Jim. Did Harry know there was an animated movie? It was set in space.

It all looked mental and a bit of a silly game until Alicia Spinnet raised Harry’s _Transfigurations_ book, moved it this way and the other under the light, and announced there was something on the spine.

Everybody gave a step back at Hermione’s furious intake of breath. Oliver clutched the broom tighter.

***

A total of twenty seven wires were located in Harry’s things. The ones in his robes could be removed, but they had no idea of what to do with the others and after Seamus set an armchair on fire for the third time, he was not allowed to try anymore. Percy had been lenient enough.

For the moment, they found a short term solution in switching Harry’s things with someone else’s. Parvati gave to Harry her sister Padma’s books and the matter on how to remove an _inquisitor_ became Ravenclaws’ problem. Fred and George asked to keep Harry’s inkwell so they could study the thing better. Angelina Johnson switched him his telescope.

Harry started the term grinning, which said nothing good for his already shaky reputation about his mental balance.

“Harry, I can’t believe you” chastised Hermione. “That was a terrible breach of privacy that the Ministry did.”

But it was a wonderful thing that half the Gryffindor house had come to his help, even though Harry was pretty sure they were the same half he had madly fought on his first term.

“Not to speak of the raving lunatic that wants to kill you.” Pointed Ron, ever supportive. Ron was very grounding.

“I don’t see why he should be more successful than Voldemort” answered Harry brazenly.

Murderous lunatic or not, the important thing here was that Remus was out. Yes, Hermione believed that he must have escaped in order to stop Black from murdering Harry, and given what little Ron had learned about Black, Remus didn’t have good chances. But _he was out_. All Harry had to do was get out of Hogwarts, too.

***

If the dementors were there for their protection, why were they looking in instead of out? Shouldn’t they be with their backs to the school?

Harry could see them when he climbed to the aviary to sit by the roof, and when he went to the Astronomy tower. Ragged dreadful things floating in the air.

***

Hermione was really worried about all the classes she missed last year and so was Ginny. Both girls were studying a lot. Harry had also missed a lot of classes even though he had been physically there. He was now incredibly behind and annoyingly not much worried about it. But at least he started to take some notes in class.

Not necessarily related to the subject matter, but, hey, he was writing. That totally counted as schoolwork.

***

Some sadistic and tortured soul had decided to schedule the Gryffindor/Slytherin third year DADA class together.

Who would do that? Why did they want to spread tears and hate in the world? Gryffindor and Slytherin did not work well together. They just didn’t. More often than not they only shared the Potions class because it didn’t require wandwork and the most they could exchange in that class was some insults and taunts and the occasional thrown ingredient. Same with Care of Magical Creatures. In DADA they had their wands out and they were working with dangerous creatures and curses.

But if it had to happen, at least it was during the year Kingsley Shacklebot asked for leave of absence in the Auror Office and became the new DADA teacher at Hogwarts. Shacklebot was smart and had quick reflexes so not only was he able to finally teach them something useful, but he could also stop the students from killing or permanently injuring each other while he taught.

***

Shacklebot certainly hadn’t expected such hard, tortuous, labour. He had Gryffindor/Slytherin for the first, third, fifth and seventh years. “Good luck” is what the older Weasley, Percival, had told him after leaving his class. Good luck! McGonagall had said the same and he had understandably thought they meant the third year with the infamous wild Potter. (Poor kid, Shacklebot felt bad for him).

They hadn’t warned him about the twins, the bastards. That’s what they meant: “Good luck with the twins they are the devil’s spawn.” They were actually very good students and they paid attention, that was the problem. He seriously feared for Cassius Warrington’s chances of surviving the year.

Kingsley Shacklebot was a Senior Auror who had only taken this job as an extra precaution against Black (and Lupin) coming to kill the little Potter. He had honestly thought the two felons would be the hardest part of an otherwise uncomplicated year. He never expected to drag himself to bed every night exhausted; to sweat so much and to exert himself trying to keep the children from harming each other. His reflexes had never been so good.

***

Not every kid in the class managed to defeat the boggart. That was all right. You could simply step back to the circle and the boggart would focus on someone else. You could still learn a lot just from watching others.

Harry didn’t get to face the boggart. Shacklebot said that was fine, he didn’t want the class panicking at the presence of Lord Voldemort and Harry gave him a funny look.

Voldemort? Certainly not. Even with the creepy double head thing. Harry just couldn’t bring himself to be scared of a man who felt like he had to hide under a ridiculous penname. His middle name was Marvolo, _Marvolo_. Incredibly cool sounding and promising, and he had to change it for Voldemort, please.

No, if Harry were scared it would be either a dementor or Sirius Black, mad and cold as he was in the pictures, lashing against Remus. Or the men from the Ministry coming to take Severus.

But that didn’t worry Harry. Fear was… fear was something you learned to live with and worked around. He was a Gryffindor and yet he was scared all the time. Even if he couldn’t cast _Riddikulus_ he doubted the boggart would have much effect on him. It would be yet another frightening thing in Harry’s life and he would muddle through as he always did. Being afraid is not a reason to stop working.

Besides, Harry’s mind was moving constantly. Would the boggart be able to fix on a single image?

And talking of wandering minds. Harry was thinking now of the brief flash of black and silver he had seen when the boggart got closer to the Slytherin group. It had been a quick shape, between a werewolf with blood stained fangs and a wrinkly old woman with a wand that looked like a huge needle. A figure tall and slim and elegant even in the silhouette. A figure of black with a silver mane down its back, standing there just for a second.

Of course the Gryffindors had hogged the boggart, so the Slytherins didn’t get much chance of practicing against it.

***

Severus felt like he had all the weight of the world not over his shoulder but between his temples and the bridge of his nose. He was having the worst headaches.

Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban. No one had ever managed to escape that accursed prison and he had done it.

Remus Lupin was free, too. He was free and Severus was not surprised because of course Remus would do whatever it took to protect Harry. Even kill his insane best friend.

The traitor. A Black is a Black after all. Severus didn’t know why everyone had been that surprised. It wasn’t the first time Blacks went for some deferred murder.

 _Murder_ …

Black would come for Harry no doubt. Even if Remus found him first. Sirius had killed his other friend, hadn’t he? But if Remus wasn’t there to stop him, what good were the dementors around the school when Black had already slipped past them?

Severus thought he would never again experience such fear, such physical reaction of dread and disgust as when he realized what was going to happen to Lily, despite his best efforts to stop it. Or rather, as when he realized how far he had been willing to lower himself, how debauched and polluted how… _sullied_ to get a mere glimpse of approval and something that passed for affection. It had been a nausea that took over all of his body, a feeling of uncleanness that clung to him for many years.

(He thought that the corruption would be over his skin forever, just as that dreadful tattoo. He hadn’t accounted for the cleaning capacities of a seven year old’s sticky hug, full of sugar and syrup. And later on, every caress of Remus that was like forgiveness and redemption).

He had thought he would never again experience such fear. Even when _they_ came and took Remus from him before he had even dared to call him his, even then he hadn’t feel such terror.

Perhaps it had been the shock. He hadn’t expected for Remus to be condemned to Azkaban. Severus was very good at denial.

But now everything came together. The fear for Harry and for Remus. The constant reminder that Lily’s murderer was free while she was dead. The compulsion to check his forearm again and again. Severus was feeling less than patient.

Three weeks, maybe four, in the semester and Harry stuck his hand inside Longbottom’s cauldron. Severus would have slapped him right then because putting your hand inside a cauldron was a death-seeking dangerous thing to do, except that Longbottom has forgotten to add the newts’ eyes and he had put daisies instead of digitalis’ essence so the brew was nothing more than disgusting soup at best.

Harry put his hand inside the cauldron and making eye contact with Severus, his expression one of secure arrogance just like his father, knocked the cauldron over.

***

“Just leave Neville alone.”

“Mr. Longbottom demonstrates a criminally lack of sense or knowledge and he would do well to smarten up.”

“But Severus, so do I.”

Harry was looking at him with a devastated expression. The room still smelled faintly of daisies.

“He is bad at potions, making him douse his own pet won’t make him any better, just as keeping me days and days for evening lessons won’t make me able to transform a frog.”

How arrogant Harry looked. Just as his father did that fateful night in the Headmaster’s office when he claimed all responsibility for himself to exculpate Sirius and Remus.

How very much like Lily, though, to plead for someone else.

Severus didn’t know what to say. The smell of daisies made him feel ashamed.

“I can’t allow for Mr. Longbottom’s incompetence in class.”

“All right, but you don’t have to scare him.”

Harry cleaned up the potion, by hand, because he had emptied it out on purpose after all. But that didn’t take very long. He spent the rest of his detention time drinking tea with Severus. They were both careful not to talk anymore of the school or the news or the dementors or Remus. That was for the next day, for of course Snape had given him a three-day detention, anything less would be out of character. But for now, today, it was enough to talk about plants and potions and books and how Harry thought he was very close to making his Walkman work.

***

“People must have been looking for Harry when you took him. It couldn’t just be anyone who helped you” reasoned Sirius. It was cold, they were both dressed inadequately although they had managed to procure some coats. They were not much closer to rescuing Harry or capturing Peter, although at least they had managed to get to Scotland.

Remus was starting to think they hadn’t approached this right. They had evaded capture so far, but they needed to find a proper base and supplies or whether they were captured or not would become pointless.

They have had to steal three times so far. He didn’t like it.

“Someone with advanced spell casting and defence against the dark arts” mused Sirius. He was sitting pressed closely against Remus, for warmth and also for the small spot of sun light. After Azkaban, they were both attracted to any sun rays they could get. Sirius sometimes stopped to stare at flowers mesmerized and he had been brought to tears by the first yellowing leaves of a tree. Remus didn’t comment because he had a similar reaction at the sight of a sparrow.

(How Harry liked animals. How many stupid birds thrown or fallen from their nests he had helped him nurse to health).

“So… an Auror? But who would- I just can’t see anyone going like that against Dumbledore. Although a woman perhaps, yes a woman would understand. Oh my god, Moony, you are in cahoots with Alice Longbottom you fox!”

How do you answer to that?

“Sirius…”

“Yeah, yeah. Stop trying to guess, Sirius. It was aaall meee because I can’t risk giving up the name of my accomplice” he sing-sung. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Sirius, you know why the Lestranges were sent to Azkaban, don’t you?”

“They uh… They attacked the Longbottoms, yes. But _they were captured_.”

The sunlight was golden and warm. The forest picturesquely pretty. Why was it that small tragedies like this had to take place in beautiful spaces? Not the Longbottoms, but the blow he was about to deliver to Sirius.

“I am very sorry, Sirius. Frank and Alice never recovered.”

If he weren’t so tired and cold, Remus would excuse himself to let Sirius cry in solitude. Instead, he put a long arm over his shoulders and gently drew him against his chest and let him mourn as they all did twelve years ago.

***

Last year there was a monster roaming the corridors of Hogwarts and Harry still had to attend the school. He failed to see the reasoning that made them deny him Hogsmeade privileges just because he didn’t have a signed paper. Who was supposed to sign it in any case? Bunch of hypocrites.

Harry was morosely contemplating the happy students on their way to the village when Fred and George took him aside. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing, because sometimes they needed subjects to try new things and they didn’t always ask for permission from said subjects. The week they learned how to cast the potato-nose curse was a hard week in the boy’s dormitory in Gryffindor.

But today wasn’t about that. Instead, they ceremoniously bequeathed Harry The Marauders’ Map with an immediate explanation on how to locate the closest secret passage to Hogsmeade.

Harry couldn’t believe their generosity.

It was a wonderful thing, being able to go to Hogsmeade. But beyond that, Harry liked to study the map and compare it with the mental image he had created in his mind. There were dozens of rooms and stairs he didn’t know about. There was also a sad lack of roof inclusion. It seemed only he liked to sit on the roofs.

Now when he wandered at night (for he still had trouble falling asleep some nights) he walked under the cloak with the map and his Walkman. Deaf and unseen like a spectre.

***

Severus Snape was not having a good year. And now he saw that it was going to get worse and he was just. So. Tired.

So tired that it took him almost two months to notice. By then all of the bruises had gone, all the evidence.

Not that he could show them to anyone other than to Draco himself to prove to him that there was no point in lying to Severus. But now, when he talked to Draco he would deny it all and he would get defensive and Severus couldn’t even press on the bruise or roll up a sleeve to stop the nonsense. Draco would be distrustful and even aggressive, not because he was a Malfoy but because, and this Severus understood very well, no child ever admits that their parents do anything wrong. Not with the truly important matters. That ability only comes with adulthood.

Still Severus had a talk with him and Draco did get defensive and left his office muttering to himself that Severus was a filthy half-blood anyway and what did he know.

Severus had excellent hearing. He called Draco back immediately. Draco, who stared back at him with a defiance that belonged in Gryffindor and a hollowness, a deep sorrow, that Severus had only seen before in Harry during that fateful first year of school.

How many people knew that Severus was a half-blood? Very few, he was sure. It was not the kind of information you advertised when you joined a blood supremacist group. Unsurprisingly, Lucius was less careful with secrets than Severus.

(He had given up the Dark Lord’s diary, for Merlin’s sake. The man had no sense of what secrecy meant).

Severus looked at Draco. He had stopped wearing the sling after just a few days, but Flint had made him wear it again so they could get some extra time to train for Quidditch. Severus didn’t fault Flint. It was a good opportunity and he had seized it. Given that the team was rather more lumbering that skilful, Severus was glad for the extra time.

(He didn’t like or care about Quidditch, but he enjoyed ribbing Minerva who took it like a personal insult to her clan).

“Perhaps Madam Pomfrey should have a closer look at your clavicle” Severus said as if nothing had happened, pointing to Draco’s left shoulder even though his injured arm was the right. “I do hope your injury won’t prevent you from playing Quidditch.”

Draco looked completely lost. In other circumstances, his worried expression at having perhaps overreacted and said too much and insulted his professor and Head of House over nothing would be pretty funny.

(He _had_ overreacted. Malfoys were very dramatic, and so were the Blacks. It was a mystery that the child wasn’t throwing more tantrums considering his heritage. Really, Draco’s restraint of himself was commendable).

“I…”

You nothing, Draco, you senseless proud child. Severus ached for him.  Draco looked down at the completely healed arm that Hagrid’s beast had injured.

Of course Lucius was demanding the immediate sacking of Hagrid (unlikely, Dumbledore had come to his defence) and the execution of the hippogriff (very likely). Severus couldn’t say that it surprised him. Lucius was a terribly possessive man, after all, even if he wasn’t given to treating his possessions with care. So he would beat his own son, but he would be absolutely furious if anyone else hurt him.

“Do come see me if you get any other injuries… practicing Quidditch.”

“Right, I will do that, professor.”

Poor Draco looked just as tired as him. Severus made a note of finding some way to cheer him up because Draco did not have the mental stamina to endure this. No Black ever had.  

***

How perfectly ironic that the year Hogwarts knew more gloom, the year the castle was warded not only by spells but by dementors too, was the year Harry got music back.

He was also about to flunk Charms because no matter his good intentions for this year, after two courses not paying attention he was now only barely able to perform the most basic spells. And yet, here he was with a functioning Walkman that everybody said he couldn’t possibly have.

He wasn’t sure how exactly he had done it, other that it was a process rather than a single time spell. It was a Saturday with most of the castle gone to Hogsmeade. Harry would have gone too (the twins had been really generous there, really generous, Harry didn’t know how to repay them) but he had was supposed to go to detention later.

He didn’t remember for what, or with whom. Maybe it wasn’t detention but one of those “reinforcement classes” where a teacher pushed and Harry tried but still everyone left tired and grumpy and Harry wasn’t any closer to getting whatever they wanted him to do right. Harry wasn’t particularly proud of it, but he had once gotten really close to giving professor Flitwick a meltdown. He had patted the poor man on the arm and assured him it was not his fault that Harry could only levitate objects once out of every five tries.

Anyway, he had been sitting in the roof below the aviary. It was cold in there and the wind pushed hard, but it was nothing for a Quidditch player and he liked the feeling of the sun and the clean air. Like he was the first person getting it, before it got all used by the people below. He had the Walkman with him because he carried it everywhere out of habit, just as he always had a book with him. His wand he didn’t forget anymore because he didn’t take it out of his schoolbag after classes, and during the day he wore in a wristband Ginny had made him. But the Walkman, that was with him always.

He had been remembering the songs in the tape. Sometimes he got the cassette to move, but no sound would come. Now he was remembering the music in his head while he looked at the little wheels of the tape turn and just like that, [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O4irXQhgMqg) started to come out, faint at first until it got some more strength and Harry could hear plain as day the voice of Sir Michael Phillip Jagger telling him about his narrow preference of colour palette.

No wonder Severus liked this song.

***

It was not Ron, although he liked the music, nor Hermione, who still couldn’t believe the Walkman worked, the one who reacted with cheers at the news but Dean, muggleborn Dean, who immediately promised to bring Harry as many cassettes as he could find during Christmas break.

The Walkman worked erratically. Some areas of the castle were better than others to listen to music. Sometimes it started as soon as Harry pressed played and sometimes he had to hum a bit to get the device moving.

More comically, sometimes the Walkman decided that a particular song was specially good and so it would play it for all to hear even if Harry was wearing earphones. It may had developed a bit of a personality, the Walkman. Every time Oliver Wood was nearby, it would play "Eye of the Tiger." Katie Bell learned the lyrics by heart and the twins made a dance to it that they performed before every match.

***

“I don’t think the goblins like us very much.”

“For what I remember from Binns’ classes we have done little more with them other than fighting.”

“I put a mail order for a Firebolt, and Gringotts actually approved the payment from my account.”

“YOU WHAT?”

“He is my godson! He deserves having the best broom!”

“Sirius we are _fugitives of the law._ ”

“And yet the goblins said nothing. I don’t think they like wizards very much.”

This is why Remus had taken to meditation. Not to attempt to manage his potionless transformations, no, but to deal with his demented friend.

***

Harry didn’t like keeping secrets from his friends and yet he found himself keeping plenty of them. He was so young and he knew so many secret and hidden things. Some were big and felt like a cave inside a mountain, the entrance hidden under a boulder. Some where like a small pebble, like a smooth stone with a hole inside.

These were some of the big ones.

Severus Snape had been (and still was) something like his uncle or his godfather or his step-dad. Nobody knew and nobody could, even if they promised not to tell. If people learned about it, they would hurt Severus.

The Malfoys were saner and healthier than most pureblood families precisely because they were not as pureblood as they claimed to be. Again, Harry couldn’t say because then Lucius Malfoy wound hurt Severus.

There was a basilisk alive and roaming the pipes and tunnels of Hogwarts.  It was a mostly friendly basilisk and Harry just couldn’t stand the idea of someone coming to kill It. It liked music.

There were other smaller secrets. No one would die if they were revealed. But Harry clung to them all the same.

Severus had a tell. His face would be impassive, his voice perfectly even and smooth and devoid of all inflection. But if he found something funny, his left hand would twitch and he would close his fist instead of laughing. Harry was probably the only person who knew (maybe Remus did, he didn’t know). Twice, Severus had found one of Ron’s comments funny.

When professor Shacklebot made that little competition with twenty points and a big chocolate egg award (filled with smaller chocolate eggs!), Harry could have won it. He came very close, in fact, but in the end he stopped himself and anyone else coming behind and let Draco Malfoy snatch the prize. No one, not even Shacklebot, was any wiser to what Harry had done.

This was a secret because the Gryffindors wouldn’t understand, even if Harry explained that he _owed_ Draco (and how he owed him).

***

They had put up some wards in the Shrieking Shack. Someone obviously remembered.

But that wasn’t the only secret passage into Hogwarts.

There were others. One of them had the ceiling cave in, unfortunately, so they couldn’t actually get inside the castle through it. But otherwise it was wide and deep, paved with brick and worked stone like a catacomb. It wasn’t a bad place to lay low.

Remus was angry with Sirius. He was angry because Sirius hadn’t waited like they had agreed they would for the perfect opportunity. He had rushed in, knife in hand, and now Dumbledore knew they were there and Peter had gone in to hiding.

It had gone wrong, but Sirius couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Remus was pale and permanently cold and they were eating whatever Sirius could scavenge on dog form. Waiting was the most sensible thing but if he had caught Peter now, he could prove his innocence and he would be free and he could access his funds freely and he could move Remus and Harry to his house.

***

“Potter.”

Draco had come across Potter once again in the side corridor. He was standing pressed to the wall, with that ridiculous muggle contraption he always carried around. 

“Yes, Draco?”

Why didn’t he ever use his surname? Now that he thought about it, Potter called everyone except teachers by their forenames. Even Crabbe and Goyle. People knew Goyle’s name was Gregory because it was nicely alliterative, but for almost two years everyone in Slytherin had been convinced Crabbe was called Craig.  And yet Harry knew to call him Vincent.

But that was beside the point. The point was that Potter was deliberately going behind in DADA. The point was that Potter thought himself so honourable that he would let Draco win.

“I don’t want your stupid pity, do you understand? I don’t need it! What? Are you going to throw the Quidditch match too?”

To Draco’s horror, Potter seemed to consider it.

“Would you like me to? Oliver would be devastated, though.”

“No! I will beat you myself.”

“Okay, then.”

Draco stared and Potter looked back at him with a gaze that was just so… clean. Potter looked at people absolutely free of expectations, waiting for them to reveal if they were good or bad.

“Look, Draco. I’m grateful. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything” snarled Draco. “I did _nothing,_ certainly not to you.”

“I’m going to consider you my friend nevertheless.”

Dear Merlin, the rumours were true. Potter was mental.

***

The end of the semester came with Harry passing Potions and DADA quite adequately and Charms and Transfigurations probably by mere pity of the professors. Although he had managed a little bit of an _Engorgio_ so Flitwick couldn't complain.

Care of Magical Creatures was fine, a bit boring perhaps. Astronomy just didn't hold Harry's attention. Out of the ten celestial bodies they were supposed to identify, Harry could only spot Cassiopeia. He completed the exam by telling Professor Sinistra everything he knew about the myth, which was quite interesting in Harry´s opinion. Also, if you found Cassiopeia you could then find Polaris, which was not very bright so this trick was good, and then you would know where the North was and that was the end of Harry's exam.

It was the last day of exams. It was a day of death that tasted like bitter black tea. There was something wrong in the air today and Harry didn’t know what to think of it. He hadn’t felt any foreshadowing when the men from the Ministry came to his house.  Perhaps this was nothing more than an electric storm coming towards them.

Today, poor Buckbeack would be executed. Unless Harry managed to do something about it, which he absolutely intended to do because if the Basilisk, who actually killed people, was still roaming the pipes and enjoying songs, Buckbeak deserved to live all the more.

It was bitter. Harry saw once again how skewed the justice system was.

(And here was the thought, intrusive and repetitive no matter how hard Harry tried to push it away, that Buckbeak was taking Harry’s place with the Malfoys. That Buckbeak’s death was the price of Harry’s freedom).

Professor Trelawney made what could might very well be an actual prophecy (different voice and everything) and Harry didn’t care. She had been on him all semester about The Grim stalking him and frankly the only gigantic black dog Harry had seen lately had been very friendly.  Both Ron and Hermione agreed that an omen of death wouldn’t allow humans to pet him.  

“And belly rub.”

“And belly rub” Ron agreed.

***

Harry didn’t consider himself brave. What he was, was so scared he had become unafraid. Voldemort was terrifying, he understood he was, but Harry had been ten and both Severus and Remus had told him that he should not be afraid and look at that, the lesson had stuck. He wasn’t afraid of Voldemort and he wasn’t afraid of Sirius Black. Harry wasn’t afraid of dying. There were so many others things that were worse than that. The dead don’t suffer.

There were others things to fear.

When Ron was attacked, Harry was afraid for his friend. When they followed him down the tunnel, he was afraid for Hermione, and when they finally crawled in to the shack, Harry was afraid for his dad.

Remus was yelling at Sirius Black. He was telling him he was an idiot. Of course Remus would face down the man who had killed a dozen muggles.

Soon after, Severus arrived, wand blazing, and hexed Sirius out of the room.

“No, wait” Remus said.

And to everyone’s surprise, except Harry’s, Severus stopped.

***

“You are friends with _Snape_? And you never _told_?”

“As unexpected revelations go, I think Scabber’s true nature still takes the prize and we should all focus on it.” said Harry very sensibly. The rat was a freaking man! Sirius was not a demented murderer, at least definitely not a murderer. Remus was there, there, within reaching distance. But everybody had to focus on the fact that Severus would listen to Remus because, well…

“No, I agree with the Weasley boy.” Said Sirius Black, infamous alleged murderer. “What in Merlin’s beard. Snivellus.”

Harry and Remus made the exact same expression, lips pursed and twisted to the side and eyes looking to their right as if they wanted to keep talking to you, they really did, but they believed someone outside the frame was calling them, sorry, gotta go. Severus for his part stood there, wand raised and black robes improbably clean given the dust.

Ron looked terribly affronted by everything. As soon as Scabbers was forced to transform in to Peter, Ron had jinxed him before anyone could move. Sent him flying backwards and everything. When Peter tried to beg Hermione for mercy, she kicked him. After that he didn’t say much else, probably because of all of the spells. He certainly wasn’t conscious to hear the short explanation about Severus.

They made their way back to the castle slowly. Sirius chattered at Harry non-stop, it was a bit overwhelming actually. He told him about his father and about Remus and about a house in London that he hated but they could all move in if they wanted to, and he was Harry’s guardian so of course he would sign the Hogsmeade slip and, even better, he could also home-school Harry if that’s what he wanted.

And then… they had all forgotten about the full moon.

Remus didn’t hurt them. Severus knew just the spells to keep him at bay and Sirius transformed (because he was a dog! Oh, how Harry had always wanted a dog!) and shepherded him away, to the forest.

But Peter escaped. He took with him all the dreams Sirius had been spinning.

And Harry…

Harry had only gotten a hug that was too short and too cold. He had gotten barely fifty words of his dad that were just for him rather than for the whole room.  

***

The dementors came. There were so many and so tightly packed that it was impossible to count them. Harry felt as if he had called them, as if the hollow well that had opened in his heart at seeing Remus transform were attracting them.

This had been such a good year. He had finally started to feel at ease in Gryffindor. Quidditch had been great. Remus was free. He had music back.

And now, it was gone. The dementors were closing in.

Harry had had a hug with his dad. Too short and too cold, but a hug nonetheless that assured him that he was alive. Harry had gained a godfather, even if the number of people wanting to see him dead remained stable.

All this was enough to cast a _patronus_ powerful enough to scatter the dementors and even completely destroy a couple of them.

“Well I for one am very glad you remembered to bring your bloody wand, mate” said Ron, pale and shaky.

***

The night wasn’t completely ruined, though. Hermione mumbled to herself for fifteen minutes and came to the conclusion that they couldn’t do anything to stop Peter from escaping (“There is a prophecy, Harry” “Until thirty minutes ago you thought Trelawney was a phony, come on”), but they could do something else. She took her time-turner and they went back in time and saved Buckbeak, which did wonders to cheer Harry up.

Also, it helped Ron and Hermione understand Severus’ true nature. Because Severus spotted them, oh yes. Severus saw them as they dragged Buckbeak to the forest. Severus who was at the time standing with the Harry, Ron and Hermione of two hours ago, after the dementor attack

This explained his sudden compulsion to draw a bewildered Kingsley Shacklebot in to conversation and his loud insistence that everyone should go look at the lake, because Black had escaped in that direction. (He hadn’t).

“He has a… a permanent poker face” whispered Hermione as Severus waved Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, in the direction of the lake.

“You just have to learn how to read him” explained Harry while petting Buckbeak’ head to keep him quiet. “I know for a fact that he finds Ron very funny.”

“Funny?” Ron was having a day full of affronts “He has given me more detentions than McGonagall ever has.”

(Not true. It was a tie).

***

“So Severus knows muggle music” Sirius sounded both surprised and appreciative. “Wouldn’t have guessed it. I suppose he can’t be completely awful then.”

“Really? That- that is what redeems him in your eyes?”

Sirius shrugged at Remus words. Well, yeah, his shoulders and pursed lips said.

“I would have thought that him rescuing Harry from the Dursleys would be it.”

“ _Anyone_ with half a decent bone would have done that. He could still be an utter prat” Sirius explained genially. “The music… that speaks of a man’s character.”

That and perhaps the fact that Severus had helped them escape the Ministry wizards searching for them in the forest and gave them what little money he was carrying with him.

***

Severus went with the whole story to Dumbledore. As much as he despised Sirius and loathed the idea of him spending time with Remus or Harry, the truth was important. The truth about Pettigrew, if anything. He let the jealousy he felt at the idea of Sirius and Remus hiding together seep in his voice so he would sound natural.

Dumbledore congratulated Severus for his good character. The news changed a lot of what they knew, Voldemort had gotten an ally last night. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the old Order. Black was too unstable after his time in Azkaban, not to mention Lupin, who had kept Harry locked up all these years.

 _Unlike the muggles or Hogwarts, who never locked up Harry,_ is what Severus didn’t say. He had great self control.

“Black will attempt to contact Potter” Severus said in his usual smooth monotone. “He is still his godfather, after all.”

“I have no doubts” answered Dumbledore. “But I don’t think it can be encouraged. Sirius is too volatile, I am afraid, too rash as we have seen tonight. Putting the children in danger. And Remus… What could have happened had you not been there to intervene… Harry has just started to find his balance, I don’t think their influence will do anything more than upset him.” Dumbledore spoke as if he were thinking to himself, rather than talking to Severus. But he suddenly lifted his eyes to him, those piercing blue eyes. “I hope I don’t have to remind you, Severus, that Harry’s safety has to be the priority here.”

“You know it has always been” said Severus easily.

Only it wasn’t. One look at his eyes when he was three years old, and his happiness had taken the first spot. Besides, he wouldn’t be a Slytherin if he didn’t ambition for both. Happiness and safety. It could be done.

***

Harry didn’t know exactly how to feel when he got on the train back to London. There was sorrow and relief all mixed together. And below all that, a newfound sense of balance. Harry had spent two years with the ground rocking under his feet and now at last he knew where he stood. He would not fall. He had friends, he had a group, and he had found the rhythm to dance to this mad song.

It was a couple of hours before arriving to London, when everybody started to feel tired and you didn’t want any more candy. There was a penny in Harry’s mind that had been lodged in between a few memories, memories that were now shaking and relocating, and the penny dropped.

Well, well, well. Remus had a very good poker face too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing the abysmal state of wizarding social services, a rich pureblood like Lucius Malfoy would never face any trouble. What a man does with his family in his house in his own business and all that. Severus does what he can which is to offer emotional support.
> 
> Edit: This is a good rest stop. Things are not good but they are better so you may go to sleep or at least drink a glass of water. If you have been reading in one go since Mistletoe you have now read close to 60k words. So: Sleep, you earned it.


	5. The fourth year

Harry had been so sure this would be his year. Even Severus had thought so. The dementors were gone and it was just a matter of finding the right moment to abscond. Just leave when no one was watching and go to Remus and Sirius. They would figure out what to do next then.

When no one was watching.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

***

Cedric Diggory was still Hogwarts champion and had everyone’s wholehearted support. But Harry was quickly becoming everyone’s favourite, starting with his broken “What? NoooOOooo” when the goblet announced him as the fourth champion and following with his ardent defence of Diggory and pleas to let him drop out of the competition he hadn’t willingly entered to begin with.

“You are listening to an _object_ over me.” He had cried “I can’t believe it!”

He had pressed his face down with his hands as he screamed. It was most entertaining. Krum’s befuddled expression was delightful.

So Cedric remained as the official Hogwarts’ champion and he was excellent for the role. Handsome, smart, hard working. Meanwhile Harry refused to prepare for the trials or give any interviews or pose for photographs and steadfastly repeated that Cedric was The True Champion and Harry’s nomination was merely a clerical error, bound to happen when you let glassware make decisions for you.

It was hilarious, to be quite honest.

***

Harry’s official photos for _The Prophet_ had to be cropped out so the public would be spared the rude gestures he was doing with his hand. Instead they got a close-up of his face. The green eyes and raven hair made for a very nice contrast and many a witch rested her eyes on the picture a little bit before turning the page to stare at the wonderful shots of Krum and Diggory who were spectacularly handsome each in his own style.

Minerva McGonagall prepared herself to start handing unreasonably harsh punishments right and left because she could see that the situation could become ugly very quickly. The picture was everywhere in Hogwarts and she had noticed that the Creevey brothers had lined all of their books with it. It people decided to make fun of Harry and give him grief over it, she would put a stop to it so fast that she would send them spiralling into last Tuesday.

Just the other day in class Harry had gone and transformed an inkwell into a cabbage and Minerva was not letting all that improvement in behaviour and studies go to waste. Granted, they were supposed to turn a hedgehog into a pincushion and she was not quite certain what exactly had happened for him to get a cabbage but it was a good one, not even the colour of the ink, except for some traces of blue in the rim of the leaves.

So Minerva was quite ready to defend Potter on that aspect with the fierceness of a lion. Only apparently she needn’t have worried. She wasn’t sure, because the damned picture _was_ everywhere but apparently Harry’s expression of extreme disinterest (the picture almost looked muggle because he wasn’t moving) had sparked more humour than derision.

Madam Pince complained that somebody kept hanging the picture in the aisles of the library with a text reading “Potter is not impressed with your work” And “You call that an Essay?” and according to the prefects most bathroom stalls had the photo too. Harry Potter judging you while you took a leak.

She didn’t understand it but neither she needed to, as long as it didn’t cause any more damage to Potter she was fine with it.

***

You couldn’t wish for a better spectacle for the first trial other than dragons. Actual, angry, fire spitting, dragons and four teenagers to fight them. And the Champions delivered. They were smart, they were elegant, they were powerful and they looked good doing it, too.

It wasn’t enough, however, to satisfy the spectators’ thrilling anticipation. It remained to be seen, after those wonderful performances of magic, what Harry Potter would come up with. To see whether the adult wizards would have to rush to his aid as he was burned and devoured by the dragon, or whether The Boy Who Lived had some hidden talent after all.

Would he be an embarrassment? Would he be a surprise? Everybody knew Granger had been drilling him for the past week without break. Maybe he would actually manage to cast something before the dragon fell over him.

He had pulled the Hungarian Horntail, though, the biggest and fiercest of all dragons. The crowd waited with apprehension as the wizards brought the dragon to the pit. They looked at her horns and the movement of hard muscle and sinew under the skin. There was something mean about the black of the dragon scales. Something sharp and vicious in the curve of her horns and suddenly it wasn’t that funny anymore. They started to regret betting on how many minutes before the adults had to jump to Harry’s rescue.

Harry stepped on the arena calmly. Well he had to be pushed by an anonymous hand, but he didn’t look particularly rattled. As usual, he carried his wand strapped to his left forearm because he kept misplacing it otherwise. He didn’t draw it immediately, which was unnerving. Instead, he looked at the crowd, the dragon, and the arena with a clean and calm gaze.

The whole stadium held its breath when Harry finally took his wand out and held it in the air. There was a murmur as the spectators closest to him relayed the news that they had heard him cast _Accio_. _Accio_ what, they didn’t know.

There was the soft flutter of paper against the wind, it was a, yes, it was a magazine. Quick casting of Eagle Eyes charm revealed it was a number of _Magical Review_ so perhaps he was about to cast a particularly complex incantation. Sometimes they featured old and half forgotten rituals with multiple steps that were incredibly complex to execute. Surely Harry was about to attempt one of those and he didn’t want to risk messing up some part. Specially when he had such bad memory, haha. What a scholarly reaction to the task, who would have known? Probably it was that Granger girl’s idea.

And, yes, he was looking for a sunny spot because this kind of magic usually relied on celestial influence and he was sitting because…

He didn’t care. He didn’t, he had said so.

***

Harry found a comfortable enough place and prepared to entertain himself for as long as it took to the tribunal to call it quits. He certainly wasn’t in a hurry, it is not like he had other things to do. Quidditch had been cancelled this year and he thought he may have done his homework, so he was free to just sit and read. Harry quite enjoyed the journal even if it was so academic that many things went over his head. They had a habit of featuring different practices of magic, different theories, and Harry liked that. He didn’t care for any of the subjects taught at Hogwarts, but there was something oddly charming in the scholarly arguments over what exactly had a Greek wizard meant in his writings three thousand years ago or how to identify beyond a doubt the ingredients employed in Aztec potions.

It took a while for people to realize that was it. Harry sitting in the sun reading a magazine (lighter than a book and so easier to _accio_ ). The only reason the Weasley twins didn’t fall to the floor laughing was that they were leaning on each other. Lee Jordan knocked Angelina Johnson’s drink out of her hand, he was shaking so hard.

Meanwhile Harry read a paper detailing the evidence in favour and against a medieval Spanish incantation against dark forces. The British school denied any magic whatsoever whereas the Spanish scholars said they weren’t doing it properly and that they were probably mispronouncing it and a rogue Scottish author agreed with them. The main point of contention seemed to be the fact that the incantation revolved around drinking a highly alcoholic beverage and singing a song. There was also fire, the drink was supposed to be on fire. Uh.

(Should he show this to Seamus?)

Basically, they talked a lot about magic without getting to practicing it. Harry wondered how come there weren’t more squibs studying like this. They could still do research and things like that even if they didn’t possess magical abilities. There was no wandwork in spells’ linguistics.

After ten minutes, the public started to fidget in their seats and the heads of the judges gathered together in debate. So far nothing had happened and it looked like it wouldn’t unless someone went and pocked the dragon or the champion, as Karkaroff suggested. He volunteered his cane to do it.

But then the Hungarian Horntail, who had remained hunched over her nest, rose spreading her wings and long neck. There was no way anyone could keep talking while a monster of that size moved. She invoked a reverential silence as she pushed her shoulders back. She was a promise of heat and strength. The sun shone over her black hide bringing deep purple accents and a mark of death between her wings.

Harry didn’t even glance in her direction. If someone had ever doubted his sorting into Gryffindor (which almost everyone did) it was justified that day when Harry kept reading nonchalantly as a gigantic dragon slowly walked away from her nest and towards him.

There was a loud scream when the dragon lowered her head to Harry. Multiple screams. Cups were dropped and flags were clutched. Hermione was gripping Ron’s hand so hard his fingers were white. On the other side of the Stadium, where the Slytherins sat, someone had left half moon indents in his own forearm.

Harry ignored the rising noise from the bleachers and so did the dragon. She sniffed at him curiously and Harry’s hair jumped up in the air with her inhalations.

After a while Harry squirmed in his seat and folded the magazine so he could hold it with just one hand. He kept reading as he absentmindedly petted the dragon’s snout with his left hand.  

***

Technically Harry hadn’t gotten the egg. After careful examination of her nest the Hungarian Horntail noticed the golden egg, sniffed it, and pushed it away with a dismissive flick of her tail. The egg rolled to the centre of the arena, well within reach of Harry who by then had finished his magazine. The whole process had taken almost an hour but since no eggs had been damaged and Harry didn’t suffer any injuries, other than having a dragon’s head pressed against his side very much like an affectionate cat, he was still awarded enough points to make it second place tied with Cedric.

***

Severus was reminded of a small boy playing with a werewolf, fearlessly putting a sock on the beast’s muzzle.

His forearm itched.

So did his hands. If he were certain that he could get away with it, he would take Harry and abscond that very second. Go find Remus and start all over again. The jerk could come too, if he must.

But he didn’t dare. Not if both Dumbledore and Him came looking for them. Not while Hogwarts, miserable as it was, remained a safe place against Voldemort. 

He was coming. He couldn’t deny it. He was coming back. The mark was rising like a welt and Severus didn’t know what to do.

He started to think that maybe in order to save Harry he would have to stay behind. Stay and make sure that neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort could give chase.

***

“Potter what are you-? What is-?” Draco blinked and shook his head. “Have you no shame? You are representing Hogwarts!”

“Hey Draco!” Harry waved. “I have said it before, Cedric is the true Hogwarts champion.”

“That is no reason to embarrass the rest of us!”

“You look very fetching in your robes” Harry pointed, looking Draco up and down appreciatively. “They are very nice.”

Draco was dressed exquisitely, that was no surprise. Harry’s robes, on the other hand, were aggressively ugly. They were so hideous it made you wonder how could they not spontaneously self combust in embarrassment. What was the matter with the frill? There was so much frill. And ruffles.

Harry’s robes had belonged to three different witches of various tastes and body types before being purchased by Mrs. Weasley and adapted to be Ron’s formal outfit.

The next step had been very simple. Ron still cared about what other people thought. Harry did not. He really, really, did not. They traded. Ron resisted at first, because it was the polite thing to do, but once Harry got ahold of the dress and started to jump on the bed saying “mine, mine, mine” he accepted the exchange.

His smile had been so soft and wondering, as if Harry had given him the world. Harry felt as if he were trespassing on some religious ceremony, so grateful Ron looked, so easy it had been to make him happy.

Harry’s robes were green, to bring out his eyes. The colour also went very well with Ron’s hair and he looked quite fine. Not as elegant as Draco, for sure, but certainly one of the handsomest students in the ball.

Harry could honestly say that he _loved_ his new dress robes. Specially the cuffs. Oh, the glorious cuffs with three layers of lace. Harry could say that he loved the robes in all their frilly magnificence, but that wouldn’t be completely truthful because what he loved was the effect he had on people.

Draco looked personally offended. He mouthed some words silently as he tried to take it all in. Harry wanted to point out that he was going to wrinkle his beautiful robed if he kept clutching at his chest like that.

“I can’t believe McGonagall let you go out like that.” He said at last.

“Are you crazy? She hasn’t seen me yet. That’s why I had to leave Gryffindor tower after I changed.”

***

Harry spent the whole ball playing hide and seek with Minerva who was trying to transform his robes into something that did not fall under the category of “monstrosity”. Eventually she managed to corral him on a corner and Harry’s robes were expeditiously turned in to something classic, dark, and tragically frill-less. To her chagrin, as soon as she turned her back, Fred and George came running, dragging their dates with them, and immediately added some frill back.

Sometimes Harry felt as if the twins were the only sane people in the world.

“You should add some moons and stars and planets” Harry’s date suggested. No girl had wanted to go with him. Parvati had said yes and had been his official date for three days before she thought better of it and asked to see his robes and wether he knew how to dance. She refused afterwards and Harry didn’t hold it against her. He still needed a partner because the champions were supposed to open the dance and he knew damn well that if he showed up by himself they would pair with someone by force and it would be even more awkward and boring. Here is when Ginny came to solve the day when she suggested a friend of hers who, being a third year, could not go unless she got an invitation and Ginny swore the girl was excellent company.

Harry found that he quite liked Luna. At his request, she used her wand to paint over the robes and made some yellow moons and stars and yes, planets, Saturn with its rings, please. He used to have something like that in the ceiling of his bedroom and it shone in the dark. Luna sounded very interested by his description.

Also if Harry wasn’t a good dancer, no one would be able to know with Luna by his side.

***

That night, when they were back in their room, Harry took one of the books of The Pile. This year he had been given enough books to form a small pile and the mere sight of it brought joy to his heart. He had books on Quidditch from Ron and Hermione and also some classic novels (Severus’, even if there was no name or note) and some theatre plays (again no note, but this was Remus’) and some random books about motorbikes, owls and the history of plumbing in London (had to be Sirius).

Ron was very intrigued about the motorbikes.

***

“Potter, how are you doing with solving the hint for the second task?” Asked professor Moody. He was not a bad teacher, certainly knew what he was talking about, but since he didn’t hand prizes like Shacklebolt did Harry was mostly ignoring him. He had books to read. 

Still, Harry made an effort to think of an answer because if the man wasn’t nice he wasn’t not-nice either. Unfortunately, he had no idea what to say.

“What hint?” he asked, wondering if perhaps with some indications he could figure out what this conversation was about.

Moody focussed both eyes, one blue, one bluer, on Harry. Harry’s brain immediately found an idea and ran with it and he had to struggle to at least keep half his attention of the teacher’s voice.

But really, how could someone whose last name was Moody go and get himself a nickname? Like, who in the world actually decided to call him Mad-Eye? What exactly had he done that people decided that the weird electric blue eye was more relevant than his general sourness?

Moody was still staring. Harry hoped he hadn’t missed another question.

“The hint, Potter, hidden in the egg.”

“There is something inside the egg?”

“You haven’t opened it?”

“Err… right, right, I-”

“You haven’t.” Interrupted Moody. He sounded so surprised, as if he couldn’t believe Harry.

Harry shook his head no. If he didn’t speak then he didn’t have to admit that the egg had been used as a quaffle in improvised broom-less quidditch games in the common room, a door stopper, a backrest, and on one occasion as a medium for Fred to showcase the extent of his balancing skills. It had certainly not been opened at any point.

“I believe Mr. Bagman explained this to you.” Moody said.

“I am not known for paying attention to people” Harry pointed out, because it was very much the truth, he didn’t know what they were expecting. “Plus I don’t care all that much about the Tournament.” Also true.

Moody stared some more.

“Take the egg and open it under water and listen to the clue and then ask for help on how to survive on the water for an hour.”

“Okay, I will listen to water for an hour with the egg.”

“No, Potter.”

***

All the other champions agreed with Harry. You can’t say “But past an hour – the prospect’s black / Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back” and then claim you didn’t mean it seriously. These were the same people that allowed teenagers to fight dragons. _Mother_ dragons. Of course they believed them capable of letting the kidnapees drown or be devoured by the waterpeople or whatever.

They all thought Harry had exhibited commendable moral fibre and good magical abilities. But mostly, he had just taken whatever Neville gave him and remembered Remus’ teachings on dealing with creatures. Grindylows were only a problem if you panicked, which Harry did not.

Draco had to be a jerk about it, of course. But Harry didn’t hold it against him. Draco communicated in taunts and jives, just as Harry had spoken mostly through fists in his first year.

“Come on Draco, don’t be like that.”

“ _The one you will sorely miss_ ” Draco recited batting his lashes.

“Well he is my best mate” Harry said reasonably “And Hermione was with Krum. Besides… they wouldn’t risk _you_ drowning, would they? What would your father say?”

Draco blinked twice, silent, mouth hanging slightly open.

“Surely, you know I appreciate you, Draco. Don’t you?”

He did. What Draco had done at the custody trial… That was something. And there were all the other little things, like how he still mocked Neville, of course he did, but he had stopped mentioning his parents after Harry told him to quit it. And he left Ginny well alone without anyone having to say anything.  And he made fun of Hermione for being a mudblood, but oddly not for being a know-it-all and Hermione resented the second much more.

Draco was a bastard, but he wasn’t a bad guy. If that made sense.

And he was always so surprised, it was kind of fun to give him praise. He looked so perplexed at someone liking him with no further interest or gain.

“Okay, so what is that thing?” asked Draco quickly. More like demanded, actually, but Harry supposed he was in a hurry to change the topic.

“It’s a Walkman.”

“It doesn’t walk. And it doesn’t look like a man.” Draco shot back “Muggles are stupid.”

“Some of them are, yes. Come, I will show you.”

For all his protests, Draco accepted the earphone Harry was handing him and then…

Draco’s face. For all the gargoyles in Hogwarts, _his face_.

Wizards had music, of course, but to Harry it felt a bit stiff and almost… ossified. Like they hadn’t done much with music in the last two hundredth years. They had modern rhythms and groups, but still to Harry it felt like wizards were afraid of experimentation.

Harry had made a guess and it was a good guess. Draco Malfoy approved wholeheartedly of classic muggle rock and roll. He stood beside Harry until the end of the cassette and they were both late to their lesson with Moody.

Somehow, they started to meet every Tuesday and Thursday for fifteen minutes. They never mentioned it, they didn’t exchange a word and it was a wonder how they managed to agree on the time and place nevertheless. But as Harry was coming down from his Divination Lesson and Draco went to Arithmancy, they would sneak behind the statue of a vampire with a billowing cape and they would listen to music.

***

Harry stayed by the entrance of the labyrinth, waving and wishing good luck to the other Champions as they in turn entered the place. He tried _accioing_ something to read, but the place had been warded and once again they were only allowed to enter with their wands. So it was a bit boring, but at least Harry knew it would be over soon.

Until he heard the scream. High, long, a mixture of terror and pain.

Harry only hesitated for a second before running in that direction. It took him quite a few twists and turns but when he found the smoking remains of an acromantula he knew he was in the right place. Soon after he found Fleur fighting over half a dozen redhats.

Nasty.

One was bad enough. Two or three meant trouble even for adult competent wizards. Redhats in such high numbers… Well it was a wonder that Fleur was doing so well. They were everywhere, pulling her hair and her skirt and kicking at her legs and punching her stomach to make her fall. And every time they got a good hold they would bite and every bite took a bit of your strength.

Their hats were crimson red already.

 _Languidus flundus_ followed by a blasting hex casted in an arch. That was the proper way to deal with them. But it came to Harry later. What he did was tie up his jacket, throw himself to the floor and _roll_. It felt counter intuitive, but it would shake any redhats loose and with any luck smash them or stun them a bit. Enough that you could stand up and put a reasonable distance. They were strong but they were not that fast.

Harry felt like he had always known that. Something that predated the memory of the charm Shacklebolt had taught them.   

Fleur was dazed and pale and incredibly pissed. She was shaking slightly and Harry guesses it was more indignation than anything else.

“Zat is not all’ight, Arry” she said, summoning an iron cage to trap the redhats. “Nine bonnet-rouge! It’s like zey want to kill us.”

Harry wished her luck and saw her leave fuming. He felt a bit sorry for the next creature she encountered.

He tried to make his way back to the entry but, well it was to be expected, he got lost.  

***

“Oh, come on!” cried Harry when he entered what was undoubtedly the centre of the labyrinth. Not fair. Not fair! He had gone out of his way to help the other candidates, he had turned back from every encounter, reasoning that if he was finding traps and monsters he was getting closer. And he still arrived before anyone else!

He loitered there for thirty minutes. Cedric hadn’t looked so bad, surely he would make his way soon. What was a bit of an angry Blast-ended Skrewt after all? Victor he wasn’t so sure because when he saw him he had had a haunted look. Murderous eyes, even. Harry had clapped him on the shoulder, asked if he was feeling all right and then Victor had blinked and looked… lost. As if he didn’t know how he had gotten there. Harry had recommended he sat for a while until he felt better and even offered to stay with him, but Victor declined. 

It was getting late and Harry was hungry. Also, it occurred to Harry that if he was proclaimed Champion of the Triwizard Tournament it would give him a solid argumentation for his case for early emancipation. Seventeen seemed an eternity away and in his experience it barely took four months to go to trial. With a bit of luck he could get himself declared a legal adult before Halloween.

He still waited a few more minutes, but no one was coming. The labyrinth had fallen silent.

Harry touched the cup.

***

Horrible idea.

After touching the cup Harry was kidnapped, cut, bled, insulted and tortured (oh god, it hurt so much).

And what’s worse, he was patronized.

They laughed at him. They called him child. They said he was Dumbledore’s pet.

They were just like the Ministry. They didn’t listen. They didn’t listen when he said he was not such a big fan of Dumbledore (although this was not the time to explain why) just as they didn’t listen when he pointed that he wasn’t even fifteen yet and what exactly was Voldemort trying to prove fighting against him? He was slapped for daring to use his name and they pushed him into a circle of wizards, his useless wand in his hand to duel against The Greatest Wizard in The British Isles.

Voldemort made him bow when Harry refused to. Would that made it look as if he had entered this willingly? Would that made it all right for him to duel Harry?

Harry had absolutely no chance of winning. He knew that. He accepted that. He didn’t even raise his wand, what for? He wasn’t surprised when the _Avada Kedavra_ hit him straight in the chest. Sad, of course. Not for himself as much as for the people he would let behind and the pain it was going to cause them. Sad for Severus and Remus.

His last thought, as he felt the heat of the curse land just over his heart and spread around his chest, was that he had seen this before, that it was ridiculously similar to the green light in _Sleeping Beauty_ and that he wished he could hug Remus now.

Harry fell to the ground, dead.

_

__

___

 

Death was orange in colour. It smelled like apricots.

 

___

__

_

 

You know the feeling. When you wake up while dreaming and you find yourself losing the thread, forgetting, discovering that the things that made so much sense are now perfectly absurd. When you are left with a disconnected image, maybe, and an emotion.

Harry woke with a whole world disassembling and turning into nothing, forgetting. He was left with the silhouette of a woman with a big smile and a crying voice. He was left with the certainty that he was loved, he was loved so, so, much. The feeling that it was all right, don’t be afraid Harry, you are very strong, I love you.

He wished he could remember her face. Already he was forgetting the sound of her voice.

He had, however, the smell of her skin and the sensation of hair brushing his cheek.

***

He was lying face up. His wand loosely held between the fingers of his right hand. He didn’t dare opening his eyes. He risked only the shallowest breathing.

Voldemort was saying that here lay The Boy Who Lived and that _he_ had truly conquered Life and Death. _He_ was power.

Harry was trying to remember where had the cup fallen. Should he run towards it or _Accio_ it back? No one else had touched it so it should still work, right? It should still be a portkey.

He still hadn’t mastered the _Accio_ despite Hermione’s relentless training. He could get things to fly towards him, but only if he really wanted them. Otherwise they simply stayed where they were which Harry had felt at the time was a perfectly sensible use of magic. You didn’t want things flying around at the simplest whim.

He really wanted the cup, though. He couldn’t believe himself but he actually wanted to go back to Hogwarts.

By the tone of his words Voldemort would be done preening soon. Harry supposed they wouldn’t just let him there. There would be some light mutilation at the very least before dropping his corpse somewhere public. He should definitely act before that.

The ground below him was wet dirt and grass. The tombstones had been claimed by ivy and moss. Not even a bit of sand or dust to kick up and make a cloud in which to hide. Severus knew a charm to make the vines grab you, but Harry didn’t remember it and he probably couldn’t do it anyway.

Voldemort was now criticising the deatheaters that hadn’t returned to his call, promising a hundred punishments in between dropping unsubtle hints about his followers not having searched for him during these years.

“Not even you, my dear Lucius.” Voldemort had a very peculiar way of speaking. It reminded Harry of someone, but he couldn’t figure out who.

“My lord” there was the rustle of clothes, as if he were kneeling “If I had heard even the faintest rumour, I’d have – _run!_ He- HE IS RUNNING!”

He was not. Not yet. Harry was getting up quickly and waving his wand to get Bluebell Flames. They didn’t burn, but it was one of the charms that Harry reliably got right, mostly because he liked the blue cold fire that didn’t burn or hurt or did anything, really, except kind of look like flowers. Dimmer than a _lumos_ , too, the flames were. But they could be spread and Harry had pointed his wand in a circle so everyone would be blinded for the next few seconds, reduced to blinking to get their night vision back.

Enough for Harry to drop down again (in a fight, never cast twice from the same place. Shacklebolt had taught them that) and point his wand to the place where he thought the cup ought to be.

The cup jumped to his hands before pronouncing the words. And look at that, it was still a portkey! The day wasn’t totally ruined.

***

Everything was a whirl, so Harry kept his mouth closed, mostly so he wouldn’t throw up on top of someone. He knew he had spoken, but very little. He didn’t say anything to Moody who, as it turned out, was not Moody but a freaking deatheater. And because he was tired and his head hurt and so did his teeth (he had been tortured mere hours ago, but it felt very distant) he didn’t say anything to Dumbledore either, other than Voldemort’s return, he spoke plenty about that. Hey, everyone, Voldemort is back. Harry guessed Severus could not spirit him out of Hogwarts now. Why did everyone agree that Hogwarts was such a safe place, Harry did not know. It didn’t feel safe, although someone had pressed a hot cup of tea to his hands and that was very nice. Chocolate milk, like the one Remus used to prepare him, would had been better though.

But about the… other thing, Harry kept silent. He didn’t even tell Ron or Hermione or Severus, because he wasn’t even telling himself. He didn’t acknowledge it until he found himself back at the Dursleys. (How? How? He didn’t remember the final exams or the train trip).

He could never fall asleep on the first night. He always had the feeling that they were going to come in the middle of the night and drag him down to the closet under the stairs. The only way he could sleep was if he lay by the door so he would know instantly if someone was trying to open it.

He waited until everyone was deep asleep and then tiptoed to the bathroom. The light was glaring and he blinked a bit before he dared taking a look at himself in the mirror.

And then he removed his shirt.

The curse had hit slightly off centre of his chest, right above the heart. There was a big purple bruise in the entry point, with thin red lines running from it kind of like a river map or the roots and branches of a tree. It covered his chest from below his clavicle to somewhere under his navel. It was eerily beautiful, this mark of death, and Harry couldn’t stand the sight of it.

***

That night and for the rest of the week Harry had a nightmare. This wasn’t anything new because he always had nightmares, here and in Hogwarts. The only place where he could sleep decently was in the Burrow. But this nightmare was new and it terrified Harry like no other.

In the nightmare Harry was again in that graveyard in front of Voldemort. He was pushed inside the circle of deatheaters wand in hand to duel him.

But this time was different. This time Harry was dressed in silk black robes, just like him. The robes were open at the chest revealing his white skin and the purple tendrils of the new scar, bigger and deeper in the dream, the thin branches twisting their way up Harry’s body until they reached the scar in his forehead.

He was pale and marked with purple lines. He had black hair, just like now, tousled and rumpled by the wind. But his face was different. His face was pale and gaunt, a hundred times like it had been that summer the Dursleys starved him. The lines around his mouth were hard and his nose was thin and sharp. His eyes… his eyes were red, just as Voldemort’s. He was his equal. The dark lord that would come to take his place. The one so foul that again and again was rejected by Death.

In the dream Voldemort didn’t die, in the dream, with the logic of dreams, Harry stepped in his body and his place and all the deatheaters kneeled before him.

***

There was a new scar on Harry’s body and he couldn’t stand the sight of it. He couldn’t even think of it.


	6. The beginning of the war

Severus didn’t respond to the Dark Lord’s call until a week later, when the mark burned again. Even then, it took him some time to prepare.

Severus took every memory he had of Harry and locked it carefully in a pensieve. He could convince and manipulate and he could hide his thoughts, but if Voldemort wasn’t inclined to listening to his excuses for his absence Severus just couldn’t risk giving up that, nor under torture or legilimentia.

Severus apparated to Voldemort’s den, not knowing if he would get out alive.

He needn’t had worried, as it turned out. Voldemort was happy to see him and every single one of Severus’ actions was received with approval. Severus kneeled before him, gave a calm assurance of his continued loyalty with no hint of fear of doubt in his perfectly even voice. (Remus, however, would have known that he wasn’t sincere). He said he had waited for his return in a position where he hoped he could be useful, and the Dark Lord smiled a smile of crooked and pointy teeth. Severus had arrived a week later and yet he had already garnered the lord’s favour.

The most terrifying aspect of Voldemort wasn’t his inhumane visage, or his unholy quest to conquer death. The monster’s worst weapon was that he was the most powerful legilimens anyone remembered. He was so powerful he could often catch intentions without needing to cast the spell. Merely being in his presence was enough for him to smell your lies and get a taste of your secrets. There was no way to disguise your fear from him. And if he turned his full attention and his wand to you, he would seize complete control of your mind. He would take you, conquer you, claim you, rape you, leave nothing of yourself to call your own. He would make you know what it means to belong, to be owned, to not be.

Severus knew this well. He did not…

(This was a secret.)

When he heard about the prophecy, before he knew exactly what it meant and to whom it referred, even then, he wanted to be quiet. He did not want to reveal it. This was the secret.

But Voldemort had sensed the idea in Severus’ mind. Once that happened, there was only speaking, fast and clear, before the Dark Lord decided you were less than absolutely committed to the cause. It had been the days of his height of power and he could afford to kill followers to make examples out of them. He sensed that Severus had learned something important and so Severus spoke while Voldemort dug his claws deep in Severus’ mind. He only just managed to disguise his hesitance to speak as fear for his beloved Lord rather than the relief he had initially experienced when he heard the prophecy. This is what saved Severus’ life.

He hadn’t known what it meant, in any case. He thought that _approaches_ meant there was a foreign wizard coming to England. He had thought it would be an adult, not a baby. Not Lily’s. He wouldn’t have given it up so easily had he understood.

That Severus managed to fool him now was a marvel.

But then again, as much as Voldemort was a great legilimens Severus was just… better. He had learned to be. Not because he was a skilled occlumens (and oh, how he was) but because he did not rely exclusively on his magical ability to shadow his thoughts, not anymore. The best way to fight a legilimens isn’t to erect a magical barrier but to present them with an open garden and just a few dark corners with little secrets and shames. Make sure they don’t want to read your mind in the first place, let them think they already know everything about you.

Don’t let them wonder. Questions brings death.

Just as Severus now wondered about the actions of some of his fellow deatheaters. Their vagueness and unusual repetition in the description of the return of Voldemort, a certain tendency to utter the exact same phrases. Severus couldn’t believe that Goyle Senior could come up with something as complex as: “T’was with astonished joy that we saw Him rise and with devoted hearts we, as one, saluted Him on bended knee and presented Him with out allegiance, hearts, and wands.”

Goyle Senior still laughed at fart jokes.

It _could_ be something that Lucius would say and maybe Goyle would try to repeat. But Severus seriously doubted his ability to retain so many words.

Over the next few days, because of course he didn’t dare do this in Voldemort’s proximity, Severus planted the thought that they ought to celebrate. Goyle, blessed fool that he was, suggested it and Lucius took the idea and ran with it and so a few of them ended at _The Lounge_ for a night of alcohol and debauchery. With their attentions fixed on their glasses or the multiple shaking body parts of the entertainers, it was easy to dive into their minds.

They all had the exact same story. Word from word, the memory was from the same visual angle. There was a conspicuous absence of Harry, all the attention focused on Voldemort’s rebirth.

Something had happened. Something that Harry hadn’t mentioned. Something so big that it made Voldemort obliviate his followers and implant a new, Harry-less, memory.

Severus knew that Harry had come to trust people less and less, to be cautious and jealous of his secrets. He understood his silence and he approved of it even if he wished they had had a chance to talk. He doubted they would get it any time soon.

But more important, whatever it was that Harry didn’t say, Voldemort was ashamed of it. He was _scared_.

Attaboy.

***

Dumbledore called for the old Order and Severus now found himself in the exhausting position not of a double but a _triple_ spy with a day job.

He had to attend to a murderous Dark Lord with recently developed performance issues. Any false movement would trigger not only Severus’ torment and death, but that of many others.

He had the ice cold, manipulative yet benevolent, wizard and his followers to keep informed and prepared for the approaching war. They relied on Severus’ information to save lives.

He had a child he loved and had sworn to protect. He had a man who haunted his thoughts and filled him with worry and jealousy and a deep ache in his belly. He could barely afford to think of either of them, he could not let them show in his mind or in his face even while he worked to protect them. It was torment.

And at some point, he was supposed to revise the school curriculum and choose new prefects and Head Boy and Girl. If he weren’t so sure that the poor boy would pay for it dearly, Severus would appoint someone other than Draco to be the fifth year prefect just to snub Lucius. At least he had Suruchi Sudabar. She was the obvious Head Girl choice.

***

Severus woke on a Saturday night with a thought in his mind, a clear, sharp, thought.

He left his bed, lonely and cold as it was, and went to rummage through his personal library. He put on a dressing gown to fight the night chill, grey and gold with an intricate geometrical pattern. A present from Remus, just as those gloves he still had and the soft warm slippers Severus refused to replace because it was impossible to find anything as comfortable.

All of Remus’ gifts went towards the warm and comfortable, perhaps because he had experience much coldness during his life.

Severus spent hours shifting through his personal collection of _Magical Review_ until he found the article he had dreamt about. February of five years ago. There was also a small piece by Remus on hags, and Severus read it because those were his words. But that was not what he was looking for.

It was a paper on old curses and folklore, which was as good as saying nothing because that was what _Magical Review_ ran on. Half practical advice and half nostalgic revisions of the old magic. Magic that was mostly ineffective nowadays. Current spells and potions were quicker and stronger. There was no comparison between them and the magic featured in the magazine, slow and tiring and with dozens of steps and ingredients and foreign words all to achieve… little. Nothing flashy.

That was the thing with magic these days (and the last few hundred years) it had to be immediate.

This would not be immediate. It would take time, at least a year and then six more months. It would be a lot of work. There were over seven thousand cultivars of apples and Severus had to find the right one.

Of course, he could use a sleeping draught, it would achieve the same purpose except for how it would not. Sometimes you can replicate things quickly and sometimes there is an essential difference in a work that takes time. Severus wanted that essence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General warning from now until the end of the series. The war has started and so there will be some war-related disturbing imaginary (murder, torture, kidnapping, oppression). It will be a long while before there is an open conflict but some of the effects will be felt right away. None of it will be described explicitly, I think, but I still want to warn for general nastiness.  
> On the other hand I guarantee there will be moments of happiness and true kindness.


	7. The fifth year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to warn for exactly in this chapter, but it is the fifth year. Things get nasty.

Harry had never been more confused in his life.

First, the dementors. There were dementors in Little Whinging. It wasn’t a bad place for dementors to be because Harry suspected no one was truly happy there. But they clashed horribly with the décor and none of the neighbours would accept them. Also, he understood that dementors were not given to roam around freely. So.

Second, Harry had casted a _patronus_ to keep the dementors at bay. He had saved not only his life but his cousin Dudley’s. He had gotten a letter from the Ministry just an hour later and Harry had no idea how he was going to explain that he didn’t have his wand with him at the time, and also, dementors, so the whole underage magic thing seemed a bit extreme. You would think they would take it in to account.

Third, the weird cat lady down the street was a squib. What even.

Fourth (to be discovered over the next few days). Dudley had taken the whole dementor encounter pretty badly and was now pestering Harry with questions about his past behaviour and what to do in life. It was an improvement over his jives and pushing, but it was very strange because Dudley was seeking him for moral and metaphysical advice and Harry wasn’t sure that he was the best person to talk about good and evil. Not when he didn’t even know if he still had a heart.

***

Harry was actually very calm when he went to his hearing to the Ministry. By now he had figured that the Ministry did whatever it wanted and trials were just an occasion to put on formal robes. It was out of Harry’s hand and that was kind of freeing, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the outcome.

(At least nothing legal or through the usual channels).

Harry wanted nothing more than to be expelled. Given that everyone was ignoring the freaking presence of soul–eating monsters when accusing Harry of reckless behaviour, Harry had figured that for once the Ministry’s interest allied with his own.

Boy, was he wrong. He should have known by now that nothing good ever came from the Ministry or wizards in general.

“M _i_ ster _P_ otter” said the witch with the shrill voice, she didn’t pronounce the _p_ as much as popped it from her mouth. “Has demonstrated erratic, aggressive, behaviour”.

Well, you are not wrong, lady.

“M _i_ ster _P_ otter displays absolute disregard for rules and regulations and this infraction is but the latest example of a long list of violations. His contempt for any figure of authority is frankly alarming.”

Would they give him a signed copy of this? Fred and George would be so jealous! And Sirius would find it pretty funny too.

“He has exhibited violent tendencies inside and outside education institutions, enough that his schoolmates, good honest young witches and wizards I must say, consider him a threat to their personal safety. Not only that, but his school performance is so abysmal one must wonder if he is truly a wizard or we are facing a case of infringement and illegitimate appropriation of wizarding culture and objects.”

What?

“Now, Miss Umbridge, this tribunal is not judging the defendant’s school performance”.

“My apologies” said the woman, who did not look sorry in the least. To Harry’s bewilderment, some wizards had taken notes at her last words. “But I do believe it is pertinent. It is my intention to prove before this tribunal that M _i_ ster _P_ otter lacks the mental stability required for social interaction and that his delusions of persecution, like his claims of the return of The Dark Lord and more recently of a dementor attack in a muggle town, make him a threat to himself and to those nearby.”

The silence that followed these words was heavy. Percy Weasley, who had been taking notes dutifully and who had not made eye contact with Harry at all, paused now to look at the woman as if she were saying something fascinating.

“M _i_ ster _P_ otter’s insanity has always been manifest, from his assertion of the good character of the werewolf Remus J. Lupin to his later declaration of the innocence of the mass murderer Sirius Black. It is for this reason that I believe that M _i_ ster _P_ otter can not be allowed to remain at an education institution where he will pose a significant threat to the young witches and wizards that rightfully attend the place. Especially when his wizard status is yet to be evidenced.”

Someone coughed at these last words, apparently only finding fault at the doubts over Harry’s wizard status and not his supposed insanity. The woman went on unconcerned.

“I find it my duty to call for M _i_ ster _P_ otter’s admittance into the long term ward in St. Mungo, where he may find the help he so obviously needs.”

An Asylum. They wanted to commit him to an asylum.

When Peter killed those muggles and made his escape, Sirius had laughed like crazy. Harry had to bite his tongue now not to do the same.

***

Harry was not sent to an asylum because quite conveniently Dumbledore came in to bring some sense to the court room. McGonagall came, too, and made a passionate defence of Harry’s character that took him by surprise because he had always thought the woman saw him as little else than a source of trouble. Yet she spoke of how the Ministry had caused his trauma to begin with when they took him forcefully from his home (true) and how Harry often defended other students (also true, now that she mentioned it) and had given proof of a generous character (he didn’t know about that).

Just like that, Harry was acquitted. _The Prophet_ did not sound very happy about it, though, bemoaning over two and half pages of the dangers good bred wizards and witches would be facing in Hogwarts with Harry Potter present.

***

On his first day in Hogwarts, Dumbledore called Harry to talk him (although weirdly he spoke with his back to Harry). And so did McGonagall (face to face). And Hagrid. And Severus, who made as if he had just found Harry by chance. And Flitwick, who also completely randomly happened to be walking there. Basically every single one of Harry’s teachers (he was not taking Runes or Arithmancy) with the exception of Professor Sinistra, who did not like Harry, and Trelawney, who never knew what was going on any given day. Even Charity Burbage, the professor of Muggle Studies, came to talk to him because, as she put it, she knew the muggle lingo.

They all had variations of the same message.

“Professor Umbridge…

“Your DADA teacher…

“That Ministry Woman…

“The Poisonous Toad…

was here and keeping her malevolent eyes on Harry. So please,

Potter,

Harry my boy,

Harry,

for all you hold dear, please, be on your very best behaviour because they had no doubt she would try something else.

“And as horrible as she is, remember that Shere-Kan roams outside” Severus had said, which was an oddly poetic way to say that the officially recognized dark wizard was Voldemort and he was not in Hogwarts, so technically Harry was safer inside than out. Remus reluctantly agreed because dear lord, Voldemort was back, no one had been expecting that.

***

Harry went to sit on the roof next to the aviary. It was quiet there, removed from the school. It was a good place to go be by yourself. Rivalvantinus, Draco’s eagle owl, immediately came to sit next to Harry and he petted him absentmindedly. It was a beautiful owl but also a bit of a jerk. Harry was pretty sure that Rivalvantinus didn’t care about Harry petting him, he just wanted to claim the spot from the other owls.

The thing about the roof is that it put such an obvious distance between Harry and the problems below that it gave him some much needed clarity. Below was Umbridge and her plan to have Harry institutionalized (Why? What had he ever done to her?). But here he could see that Umbridge was but one problem.

Voldemort was another. Severus had seemed quite worried about it and he would know, wouldn’t he? Only not because Harry supposed Voldemort wasn’t broadcasting his plans to all of his followers, but still. He trusted Severus’ judgement. Plus, Harry wasn’t in any rush to meet Voldemort again. He had had enough with the last meeting.

Umbridge. Voldemort. They were so big that they overshadowed everything else. You have to go far, far away, (or up in this case) to see that there were other players.

Dumbledore didn’t go to Remus’ trial. He was nice to Harry and he gave him the cloak, but he didn’t do anything about Remus going to Azkaban. The next year, in the hearing for Harry’s adoption, a word of Dumbledore about the Weasley’s would have helped their case. But he didn’t go and of course no one expected him to because he was the Headmaster and was obviously very busy. Yet he turned up later in the corridors to stop any other pureblood deatheater family from trying their luck, which was convenient and helpful. But not _too_ helpful.

The one time Harry was really close to leaving Hogwarts, that was the time Dumbledore came. Harry didn’t want to think badly of him, because he was Dumbledore. Nice Dumbledore. And he had helped! Harry didn’t particularly want to be locked in St. Mungo either.

Again and again, year after year, Dumbledore helped him with the Dursleys and the Ministry. Dumbledore was an ally, he had to be. He was good and he _helped_ , it wasn’t his fault that his help was never quite enough and the idea brought tears to Harry’s eyes. But the thing is, Harry never had control of where his thoughts went. With Dumbledore, they unerringly veered in the same direction, questioning his benevolent acts. Perhaps this is why he didn’t tell him about the new scar.

Perhaps Harry was so broken, so rotten inside, that he couldn’t tell good and kindness anymore. Maybe, like Voldemort, he was repulsed by it.

***

Harry went to tell the basilisk the schedule for the choir, but something had happened during the summer. It was harder to listen for It and harder to understand. The whistles that once came so easily to his lips now trembled and wavered.

Still, he thought the basilisk understood. Harry had been giving It lessons for the last two years because It couldn’t rely on Harry forever to tell It about the castle. Now that he thought about it, he could maybe ask one of the ghosts to go talk to It.

***

Things were oddly similar to his first year: There were whispers and not so whispers saying that Harry was crazy. Plus, he got detention the very first day of class.

“M _i_ ster _P_ otter, I will not have you spreading lies and rumours whose only purpose is to scare people.”

“Of course, professor.” Sometimes Harry could make his voice sound like honey and lemon. Sweet but with something acerbic in it. “Let’s all just close our eyes and hope very strongly that Voldemort doesn’t kills us. I am sure that will work.”

“Twenty points from Gryffindor, M _i_ ster _P_ otter, and detention.”

But unlike the first year, there was a viciousness in the air. A sense that they were fighting for blood. Speaking of which, Umbridge had him write lines with his own blood. Harry couldn’t believe his eyes as he saw the red scratch appear on the back of his hand.

“Is something the matter M _i_ ster Potter?”

“Well your quill hurts me when I write” answered Harry, who had been raised in the knowledge that he shouldn’t be hurt if it could be avoided. Vaccines shot and alcohol on scratched knees: Yes. Torture: No.

“A little pain helps with maximum retention of the lesson” Umbridge said with that fake sweet tone of hers, always speaking as if she had your best interests at heart. Her smile was so smug, though, so pleased at the idea of his pain. “Go on.”

But Harry did not continue writing lines because, as already stated, he had been raised in the belief that children in general and him in particular should not be hurt. He stared at her as if she had just unhinged her lower jaw, eaten a whole rabbit, and were now spitting the fur while she chewed. Harry had felt a lot of pain in his short life, even the _cruciatus_ curse. But never, not even once, had he thought of bringing that pain to himself; even when he heard about Remus going to Azkaban and Harry wanted to die. He wanted to escape and not be there, but not to actually go through the whole process of dying. (Already done that, he did not recommend it).

It felt counterintuitive, to do the torturer’s work for them.

He didn’t write any more words. He looked at his hands and remembered how whenever he got hurt Remus would put a band-aid and kiss it better and tap it with his wand. Now that he thought about it he probably didn’t even need the bands-aids, but he had liked them. They had cartoons. His favourites were the ones with hippopotamus.  

“M _i_ ster _P_ otter, you must complete your detention.” Umbridge raised her brows to indicate the waiting quill and parchment in which there was only half a line written.

“Right. Mmh… I don’t know how to write, professor.”

It was now her turn to stare. But Harry had been on the receiving end of much stronger stares. He would say that he had looked Voldemort in the eyes but mostly he was thinking of McGonagall.

They pushed and pulled for an hour, with Harry insisting adamantly that he never learned how to write never mind that he seemed able to do it just a minute ago. They kept at it until blessedly McGonagall came to his rescue, entering the office asking where he was. After seeing the quill and its intended use she took Harry with her, warning that she would talk to Dumbledore about Umbridge’s choice of discipline. She kept her hand on the back of Harry’s robe until they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

It didn’t matter. He got another detention the next day, this time to wash and polish all the ornamental dishes in Umbridge’s office until they gleamed. Ron had told him that manual labour was demeaning and that was why they used it as a punishment (Hermione had muttered something about house-elves in the background), but Harry didn’t mind it that much. Sure, it was a bother and magic was quicker, but cleaning things by hand also showed some degree of respect. Not his clothes or his shoes, maybe, but his Firebolt for sure, or the instruments used in Potions.

“M _i_ ster _P_ otter, you must stop telling lies” said Umbridge in what no doubt she thought was a tone of sympathy. “No dark wizard has returned. Deep down, I am sure you know the truth… You are a poor confused child looking for attention. It is not your fault that you have been deceived so, but M _i_ ster _P_ otter you have to try to see the truth.”

“Right” said Harry, swiping over a pink plate. He wondered if McGonagall had noticed them and what did she thought of Umbridge’s love for cats.

“You must realize, M _i_ ster _P_ otter, the influences you have around you are not helpful at all. Professor Dumbledore, for example.”

Harry snickered. Just like with Voldemort, they assumed a loyalty to Dumbledore he did not feel. He didn’t hate the man, but he wasn’t starting a fanclub that was for sure. For a great wizard he didn’t seem that competent to Harry.

“And the werewolf…” Umbridge continued. “Merlin knows what kind of twisted lies he put on your head.”

_She is only trying to get a rise out if you. Don’t listen. Ignore her._

“Half-breeds like him have always been a danger to good wizards. They are the snake hidden in the grass, waiting to strike over the innocent.”

Harry got the mental image of pureblood Gregory Goyle skipping over a meadow with a Greek dress, like Eurydice. This is what happens when you encourage children’s curiosity. They grow up to become teenagers with critical thinking and a sense of humour.

“You have been raised by an animal. A tragedy, it wasn’t your fault. _But_ you must strive to re-join society, M _i_ ster Potter. Abandon your savage ways.”

The dish he was cleaning cracked and crumbled to the floor in seven pieces. On departing, Umbridge gave him some last words. “I will do whatever it takes to make you see reason, M _i_ ster Potter.”

***

Mostly, it seemed as if Dolores Umbridge was doing her utmost to provoke a mental breakdown in Harry. And, as a secondary project, make as many people as possible profoundly miserable.

It went like this.

Harry liked flying. Was one of the few things he was good at that. So Umbridge banned Quidditch teams and once they were reapproved, ensured Harry wouldn’t be in it with some excuse or another. Harry shrugged it off and said to himself that at least he didn’t have to worry about hiding his new scar when they were in the showers.

Harry liked going to Hogsmeade (not exactly, but the change of scenery was nice). Umbridge ensured he had detention every Saturday and after October simply revoked his privilege and prohibited him entirely from going.

Harry liked music. All music was banned except for a short list that the Ministry considered educative and with good traditional values. Flitwick, who was in charge of the choir, had a fit over it. Severus looked ready to strangle someone if he had to hear one more time “What Good Witches Want.”

(A clean kitchen to put their cauldrons. Oh-oooh. A good friend that praises their cakes. Oh-oooh.  A nice black robe, that is not too short. And a wizard that looks at heeeeer Oh-oooh-ooooh).

Harry wasn’t really affected by this last ban. His Walkman worked in strange and mysterious ways. When they were in History of Magic, Harry would either read or listen to music. Ron always scooted closer and Harry gave him the other earphone and they listened together and no one seemed to notice. But if he tried to do the same in the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, the music seemed to leak out and people could hear it up to three seats down in every direction. The Ravenclaws had yet to figure out the source of the music they could sometimes hear and it was driving them crazy.  

If he sat to listen to music in the east wing of the third floor, that same music could be heard in the west wing second floor. Draco sometimes went there to work for this very reason (a big fan of Ray Charles, Draco had turned out to be). Filch was convinced it was Peeves’ fault somehow and the poltergeist found it so funny he had yet to contradict him.

Harry could have put up with all this easily. It wasn’t much worse than all the restrictions on his first year, and he had books and music and two good friends. But the worse part was how they were trying to isolate him. Not just Umbridge but the Ministry and the world in general, everyone against him, or so it felt.

Seamus called him a liar to his face. Ron and Ginny got a letter from Percy advising them to stay away from him. Severus passed him a note (via detention to Ron, who later found it in his pocket) that they could not talk, as he suspected he was under heavy surveillance and had his ladle in too many cauldrons to even hazard a guess at who was spying on him, and flywings were expensive and only for emergencies. Harry could barely risk writing to Sirius and Remus for fear of his letters being inspected and giving them away. Dumbledore didn’t look or speak to Harry at all after that initial talk. According to Fred and George, who had very lax definitions of privacy (only Hermione and the girls from the Quidditch team were entitled to it) they had overheard during the summer that they were afraid that Harry had a connection to Voldemort that could be used to spy on them.

“I really don’t feel any connection with that man” Harry said and ardently wished it were so. They really, really, _really_ , had nothing in common, though. For starters, Harry had hair and a nose. (Hermione had to hide her laugh behind a book).

“You are not trying hard enough, Harry” said George. “Expand your horizons and wicked potential.”

“Right. Could we interest you in a little murder? A DADA professor perhaps?” proposed Fred.

“You know, if you kill a DADA teacher it doesn’t really count. Ask Charlie.”

They meant it as a joke, but Harry couldn’t laugh. He could see himself becoming a murderer all too well.

Still, Harry had a small circle of friends, but Umbridge took that too. Students were to keep a foot and half of space between them at all times. (Most of them had grown with centimetres and for a glorious afternoon Fred convinced everyone that the standard measure was Filch’s left foot). And they were not allowed to form groups. (This made teaching Potions and Herbology ridiculously troublesome. At least in the latter they had open grounds beyond the greenhouses, but in the dungeons they had people attending class practically standing inside the supplies closet to be able to follow the rule).

Umbridge alternated between punishing Harry and the school in general. She got Professor Trelawney sacked and had some very nasty words for Charity Burbage, the professor of Muggle Studies. People learned to quickly exit the room whenever Umbridge and McGonagall were close.

Then, at some point in early November, she took a look at Harry and drafted a new decree about physical appearance, detailing the state of robes and how much skin one could show at any time and the restriction on hair dressing and length.

Harry’s hair was way past his shoulders now. He hadn’t cut it since the summer when he was stolen from his home. It had taken him a year and half to discover the magical barbershop in Hogwarts and by then he had grown used to it. The long hair meant hiding the scar better and short or long, it was always dishevelled. In fact, now that it had grown so much it was easier to manage. It had the additional advantage of offering a place to store his wand when he needed both arms, since he could use the wand to keep his hair fixed in a bun. (It wasn’t that strange, Luna did it too).

Umbridge had noticed and decreed that all male students should have hair no longer than one inch and half, which was ridiculously short. (Also what was this woman’s problem with the decimal system?) It was, in fact, the only decree she didn’t get to implement because two hours later the Slytherin prefects were pounding at her door. Draco was pink faced and clutching a ruler (imperial and decimal) and the Head Girl, Suruchi Something, was positively vibrating with rage at the front of a long line of students with less than straight hair. Lee Jordan and his magnificent head of curls was there, too, despite being a Gryffindor, as well as a couple second year Ravenclaws with cute short dreadlocks.

Harry did a lot of reading this year. He read the DADA book from cover to cover, probably the only person to do it because even Hermione couldn’t deal with such a frustrating textbook. The truth was that Harry found the premise interesting. A less violent approach to the dark arts, advocating for peaceful solutions. He liked that. He didn’t know how you could enforce it, because a creature that feeds on human blood won’t be very open to a change of diet, but it was worth exploring. Just as the non-magical solutions proposed in _Magical Review_.

So Harry read. When he was reading he didn’t have to think about anything else. About the gloom that was taking over Hogwarts and the horrible things _The Prophet_ published about him. About the smell of spoiled milk and the bitter regret he got whenever he thought that he had brought nothing but trouble to the Weasleys. He didn’t have to think of Draco, either, and that horrible conversation they had at the beginning of semester. Because Draco’s father had been there, kneeling before Voldemort.

By the end of November Harry had reread every novel he owned. He was down to the informative non-fiction books, like the one on plant symbolism he already knew by heart. He had a few more books like that at the bottom of his trunk. Having learned that he liked reading, Sirius was trying to help by anonymously sending him all kind of random muggles books. There was the one about motorcycles that Harry didn’t particularly like and another about spices (history, cultivation and uses) that was interesting and finally a little gem called _Resistance through the ages_.

It was a history book. Short and with many pictures and Harry hadn’t looked much at it because it felt like a very long leaflet rather than an actual book, but he was down to nothing now until either Sirius or Severus could anonymously send him more. The book was divided in multiple short chapters and in each one it explained in merely a page about some sort of injustice, and then on the next two pages it talked about someone who rose to fight it. Two pages, with photographs, was too little space to explain the drama of the fight for India’s independence or the civil rights in America. But it could give you ideas all the same, specially when you could go back and forth and compare.

There was a line in the foreword that stood out to Harry. “Resistance is often framed as obedience.”

***

Umbridge was a horrible person, but a weak one, too. It had taken her until December to realize that when other teachers gave Harry detention they were in fact giving him a reprieve and letting him sit quietly in their offices to do his homework. (Flitwick also offered him chocolate covered berries, they were very good. Severus brought him books and said nothing, still under surveillance. They could pass notes, though. Harry couldn’t bring himself to write certain things so there was a lot that went unsaid, but at least he could request books and tea).

Of course, she seized on that and soon an Educational Decree came announcing that the High Inquisitor would be the one exclusively responsible for administering punishments.

She made Harry write more lines, although not with that quill because Harry kept dropping it and insisting in an earnest way that he had never been taught how to write, no wonder he was such a bad student.

(For all they liked to talk about the physical resemblance, people seemed to forget that Harry was the son of James “I have never ever in my life seen a flying broom, I don’t know how the House Cup got up there, I don’t even go to this school” Potter).

She made him clean the kitty dishes. He broke two more and somehow wiped the image of another six.

“It must have been the rag you gave me, professor. I didn’t do any magic, you told me not to bring my wand.”

She took him down to the kitchens, to wash the dishes and all the pans and pots. That night the Great Hall could only produce sandwiches and hors d’oeuvres for dinner because Harry had managed to wash a grand total of three glasses and a small pot.

“But they are very clean! Look! Spotless!”

Finally, she ordered Harry to clean the main stairs with a toothbrush. Draco found Harry late after dinner sitting idly on the third step, locked in animated conversation with a picture of a faun.

“Weren’t you supposed to be cleaning this?”

“I am, Draco.”

Draco looked down at the stairs covered in mud and half melted snow from the students that had returned from their last visit to Hogsmeade.

“Here. This part is clean.” Harry pointed at the small area between his feet. It was indeed as clean as a stair step could be.

They were alone so Draco didn’t have to pretend to despise Harry. It’s not that he liked Harry (he did, he just didn’t admit it) or that they were friends (of course they were, Harry had said so, shut up Draco), but that they had grown to know each other and had reached a certain familiarity that could not be shown in public. They were alone so he didn’t have to pretend about that (he kept pretending about the first two, though, mostly to himself).

Draco sat with him and joined the conversation. Apparently Harry had been asking what it was like to walk with goat’s feet.

The faun left soon after to go harass the Fat Lady (“Her name is Gloria Patrice, I don’t know why no one calls her that”) and they were left truly alone.

“Are you going back home for the holidays?” asked Harry.

“Yes, of course” answered Draco slowly. He explained briefly the traditional Christmas menu, and the gnome burning and the tossing of a house elf into the pond. He spoke with the usual careful tone that denoted these were all magnificent activities and highly exclusive and if he didn’t sound thrilled about them it was because Draco was used to them. But everyone else should be very jealous.  

Theirs was a very strange relationship based on silences and things not said. Draco didn’t say certain thinks and neither did Harry, and yet those things lay between them, silent but acknowledged. Things like the time Draco spoke too much and the time that Harry did too.

Because it was not about Harry keeping quiet about Lucius Malfoy being a deatheater. It was about him bluntly saying so to Draco’s face. About Harry saying that yes, Draco’s dad wasn’t nice, but Draco _was_ and Harry had said he would consider Draco his friend and he was going to keep doing so. Draco had no idea how to answer that.

He didn’t know that he could be regarded as anything other than Lucius Malfoy’s son.

“So, do you have any new music?” Draco said at last.

“No, sorry. Nothing since the last time.” Harry looked down, at the supposedly clean spot on the stairs. “I am doing more reading lately, what with the prohibition of music.”

“Like you are following that ban” Draco scoffed. He would know. They still met behind the vampire statue thrice a week. They didn’t speak about that either.

“Yeah… Still, I am reading more. Actually…”

Draco was not going to have a nice Christmas break. Draco didn’t enjoy going home to this family. Harry reached in to his bag.

“You may like this last book I read. It’s muggle” Harry warned. “But you can put it inside another book’s covers. I do that all the time.”

And so Draco smuggled a muggle informative book back home.

***

Dumbledore had imposed radio silence during summer, although Ron ignored it and did send a couple of letters to Harry. But although he had explained a little bit and Hermione, Ginny, and the twins had later described it, Harry still wasn’t prepared for the changes that gad befallen the Burrow.

He had liked the place so much, and now they had changed it.

Supposedly it was better now. They had reinforced the roof and there was a whole other wing to the house, plus the living room had doubled in size to be able to hold its numerous visitors. The Burrow was now working as headquarters for the Order of Phoenix. Of course a London location would had been more convenient for the people working in the Ministry, but the Burrow had the added value of discretion.

***

With all of the Weasley clan (minus Percy) plus Hermione and Harry, the room felt crowded. It wasn’t long before a nurse came to tell them just that and made them wait outside and visit Arthur in groups of maximum three. A glance to the twins, who for some mysterious reason were holding a rubber chicken, and she added that they would need adult supervision.

Harry only said that he was very glad that Arthur was all right and wished him a swift recovery before quickly stepping out to give Ginny extra time with her dad. He would wait outside.

He was fully aware that it was morbid, but nevertheless he wandered off to the long term ward, to the place where Umbridge still intended to lock him up. It was actually a clean and well lit space. Harry thought that if it had been during his first year, he wouldn’t have minded being sent there.

Seven minutes in and Harry had already made a friend. And that despite spending five of those first seven minutes trying to step around Gilderoy Lockhart.

***

“And how is your son? Harry, right? You must forgive me, my- my memory is not good.”

“That’s all right, dear” Harry’s smile was sweet and tender and so, so caring. His expression changed a bit then, tried to go for something like Sirius’ dashing smile. “He is a rascal just like his father.”

The woman laughed and the floor nurse looked up sharply at them. Harry thought maybe she was going to tell him off, but she didn’t say anything. She only stared as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

Harry had no way to know. In all her years working in St. Mungo, the mediwizard had not heard Alice Longbottom laugh, ever. Not even once.

“And what does Lily say about that?”

Harry had to think a bit about this before answering. “She makes sure that Sirius and I don’t spoil him rotten. She is the light of my life.”

“She is a light” whispered Alice Longbottom. Her gaze was glazing over. Harry swallowed and made eye contact with the nurse across the room that was still staring at them. He didn’t know what was coming over Alice.  

“She died… Both of you.” Alice had tears in her eyes. Harry was struck but how kind this poor woman was and how much Neville resembled her. “But not Harry. That poor baby… He is the same age as Neville.” She sniffled. “My boy… Please don’t let him be hurt. I will take anything, just let Neville…”

“He is all right” said Harry quickly and assertively to cut Alice’s increasingly fast and desperate words. Alice’s wet eyes focused once more on him. In this moment, Harry wished he could melt on the floor and leave the room in puddle form. But he had chosen to come here, he couldn’t run now. He would see this task to the end. “He is in Gryffindor, just like Harry” he said, squeezing Alice’s hand.

“They were born in the same year. Just a day of difference. Neville came the 30th, he is the oldest.”

“And he treats Harry like a younger brother. Always making sure he doesn’t get in trouble” Harry lied easily.

Alice seemed to calm down at this. Or rather, she was not scared anymore even if she was agitated. Her lips moved without uttering a word.

“He treats… James, I am sorry. Please, forgive me. My memory is not so good.”

“I understand, Alice.” Harry put his hand over hers. What else could he do? He had cried for the parents he didn’t meet, but this, this? When Voldemort casted the _cruciatus_ on him it had hurt, and Harry had wished he could die, but it was nothing to the pain and loathing he was feeling now.

Harry wanted to leave. He wanted to leave and not look back and keep walking until he was surrounded by Weasleys and the sound of the twins’ jokes drowned everything else. He wanted to go hug Mrs. Weasley and fall asleep in his bed at the Burrow.

Instead, he offered his arm and took Alice Longbottom for a stroll, her thin fragile hand in the crook of his elbow. Neville had inherited his father’s hands, not hers.

Harry discovered that despite their absence, despite telling himself that he hadn’t met his parents, he did know them. He knew them enough that Alice could tell when he was being truthful and when he was being playful. She would swat him in the arm and laugh and say “that did not happen” and Harry would admit maybe not because Remus told Lily and she stopped them, but otherwise the fictitious Harry he was talking about, the Harry that could have been, would have been on top of an adult flying broomstick when he was age five.

Alice laughed five more times before Ron came looking for Harry. On his way out they came across Neville and his grandmother, which would have been extremely awkward (the grandmother threw Harry a _terrible_ look of a disapproval) but he had spent almost an hour with Alice by then. They were intimate.

“Neville! James was just here. He told me how you won the House Cup, my little boy, I love you so much.”

***

They visited Mr. Weasley two more times during the Christmas break and in both occasions Harry talked to Alice. She smiled at him and lightened up and that was good, but she also turned grey and anxiously tried to warn him of what was going to happen. To save himself and Lily.

Alice was an incredible woman. It was with that thought in mind that Harry went to find Hermione and took her outside the Burrow to sit on the fence that marked the border of the property. It was cold and they were alone and it was only there, outside the house, that Harry could ask why was she here.

“Harry, you asked me to come.”

“I mean in the Burrow.”

“What, you don’t want me to be here?”

Harry knew about using anger to deflect questions when you didn’t want to talk about something. He looked at her, the brilliant muggleborn witch.

“Will you teach me how to braid my hair?”

“Wh-” Hermione’s mouth moved without sound for a minute. Maybe Harry’s brain had made another big leap, too big for people to follow. But her hair was long and wild, just as his, and it seemed like braiding would be an effective way to keep it out of the way.

It would also mean having something to do with their hands.

Hermione taught him how to make a simple braid and a French braid and a reverse French braid and to take just two strands from your temples and sort of use them to tie everything down. And while she was doing that she also explained the reason why she was spending Christmas at the Burrow.

Harry thought that she was actually grateful that he had noticed and asked, even if she really didn’t want to talk about it. He felt a pang at the thought of his friend Olivia, who also had big curly hair (impossible to braid) and who just like Hermione was never afraid to fight monsters.

***

After Christmas and the mass break out of Azkaban, the official storyline of the Ministry lost its strength and they answered by redoubling their attacks on Harry and Dumbledore. Every day there was a new story of something outrageous and perverted Harry had supposedly done. It was reaching a stage where people in Gryffindor (and some Ravenclaws) started to laugh it off even if most of the school still looked at Harry with something like apprehension.

He had always been very weird. Even if the papers were exaggerating, who was to say that there wasn’t some truth?

On the other hand, this was Harry and everyone knew he was a hopeless wizard. He was not performing dark arcane rituals late at night in the Forbidden Forest and he certainly was not enticing young impressionable witches (how had Katie and Angelina and Alicia laughed at that!). Neither was he eating snake’s hearts. Nor had he bitten a schoolmate, in the manner of the werewolves.

So people weren’t quite sure what to make of _The Prophet._

Fred and George (and sometimes Ginny) joked about Harry’s eating habits. It was horrible but also a welcome break. Neville, though, Neville seemed to have been infected by the same madness that ailed Harry. He started to fight whoever dared criticize Harry within his earshot and he gave Seamus a bloody nose when he repeated that yes, Harry was a lunatic that ought to be locked somewhere.

It would be easy to think that Neville was paying a debt, just as Harry was still paying his debt with Draco. But, just as Harry had done in his first year, once Neville got started defending a person he easily moved to defending an idea. Which is why Neville Longbottom jinxed those girls that had taken Luna’s scarf and kept calling her Loony. The girls shrieked and run away with their hair sprouting snake heads that were biting their faces and necks. Neville avoided detention because although he had performed the spell in clear daylight in the middle of a busy corridor, no one could believe their own eyes.

Slowly, the fifth year learned to drop the word “crazy” of their vocabulary.

***

The thing is that Severus had realized he was being spied on as soon as he returned to Hogwarts from his extremely busy summer. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because it allowed you to manipulate your enemies from the comfort of your own home, feeding them misinformation while you were in your slippers.

But there were so many of them.

Someone in the Ministry remembered that Severus Snape used to be a deatheater and given the claims from both Dumbledore and Harry Potter that the Dark Lord had returned they had decided to keep Severus under surveillance in case he suddenly felt like sharing Voldemort’s location with the world.

Then there was the other people in the Ministry who thought that Dumbledore was raising an army to depose Fudge (what a thought, though) and Severus would obviously participate in it because he owed his freedom to Dumbledore. So they were listening too again in case Severus was overcome by the urge to explain in detail Dumbledore’s plans for a coup d’état. Aloud. Two different departments were doing this because bureaucracy.

AND, (because of course there was an _and,_ nothing in his life was simple) there were people in the Order who still distrusted him and who had taken it over themselves to keep an eye on him in case he weren’t completely loyal to Dumbledore. True, he wasn’t. But he was not about to go to Voldemort if that’s what they thought and frankly, Fletcher was still an appallingly bad spy and Moody wasn’t one to talk when he allowed himself to be kidnapped for almost a whole year.

In this equation, the only person who apparently was happy with Severus and trusted him completely was lord Voldemort himself, which miffed Severus extremely. The one person actually known for murdering his own followers at a whim and imposing terrible punishments for betrayal and disobedience (Karkaroff had not come unscathed from the latest running with his fellow deatheaters, and he would not last alive much longer). _He_ was the one who thought Severus was a loyal man. If freaking Voldemort was happy with him, Severus failed to see why everyone else was so doubtful.

Thankfully, no one in the wizarding world seemed to understand the concept of security cameras, so most of the spying spells were directed towards recording sound and movement to or a from a room, but certainly not image. So absolutely no one else besides him was privy to the recurring image between the months of September to December of Harry James Potter sitting in his desk reading comics and sipping herbal tea. No one saw the piece of parchment they used to talk or Severus handing him books.

In the end all this surveillance wouldn’t matter much because Severus was a master spy and he knew how to keep everyone happy. What mattered was that the poisonous toad who had inexplicably gained the Minister’s favour had been granted exclusive control of punishments and he couldn’t have Harry with him anymore, even in silence. What mattered was that she had forbidden professors from discussing with students anything not related to their subject. What mattered was that it had become incredibly hard talking to Harry. Plant language only took you so far.

***

Dumbledore’s dismissal was quiet. The announcement came Thursday evening, signed by the Ministry and the Board of Governors (of which Malfoy was part). They didn’t cite any specific event for his dismissal other than a general lack of quality education and concerns about the safety of students, much like they did at the end of the second year. Umbridge stepped in on Monday and immediately approved the infliction of physical punishments.

She didn’t go after Harry right away, which was a bit of a disappointment and he almost felt insulted having to wait until Tuesday. Her first order as Headmistress was to immediately expel Sybil Trelawney and the centaur known as Firenze from the grounds of Hogwarts. Not to worry, though, there was a new Divination teacher ready.

Professor Willington looked, quite literally, like dead warmed over. He was a tall thin man, not unlike Severus, except his hair was slicked back and he sported deep blue shadows under his eyes. He spoke a bit of the dismal state of their education and then the class started. They were going to learn how to interpret dreams.

The art of deciphering the meaning of dreams was a delicate process available only to a few chosen. It went something like this.

“I dreamt that I was flying.”

“Ah. That obviously signals to your strive for competence and a higher state of success. Your quest for the utmost and most magnificent quality on your endeavours. Very good, Mister…”

“Thomas. Dean Thomas, sir.”

“Thomas… I don’t recall having heard that name before. Who are your parents?”

“I am muggleborn, sir. Or so we think.”

“Ah… Well flying often points to an unplaced sense of entitlement and depraved ambition. The unquenched thirst for a position over which you have no legitimate claim. We must be careful of aspiring to be above our status.”

And then they had to tell each other a dream and write an interpretation. If you dared writing something good of a halfblood or Merlin forbids, a muggleborn, you got a failing grade.

***

Hermione pointed out, very calmly, that since Harry had given his interview to _The Quibbler_ during Christmas break and outside of Hogwarts, it evaded the Headmistress' authority.

So Harry escaped punishment, but Hermione got detention for speaking out of turn.

She had never gotten detention. Never in her life. Given that it was her very first offence in her academic career, she should not suffer the most extreme punishments. She quoted the regulation number stating this fact looking at Umbridge straight in the eye. (Harry could kiss her. Ron did give her a kiss on the cheek and George hugged her and mouthed smugly “she is ours” to the Ravenclaw table).

 _The Quibbler_ was banned, which guaranteed its widespread reading. But Harry got his punishment anyway.

They said it had been Dennis Creevey’s fault, but Harry rejected that thought. It was Umbridge, she had the wand and the power. All poor Dennis had was a copy of _The Quibbler_ and clumsy fingers and the bad luck of dropping it when Vincent Crabbe was nearby.

Vincent was not the keenest nor the sharpest student. When Harry pushed Dennis aside and said that it was his backpack Vincent didn’t question it.

Umbridge casted _flagelo_ a total of twelve times, followed by something called _tormento_ that rattled his bones.

“I expect that before the end of the course, you will have changed your mind, M _i_ ster _P_ otter and that you will manifest it publicly” said Umbridge over Harry’s exhausted panting. “I am doing all in my hand to show you the truth and redeem you of your ways but if you fail…”

She looked down, sadly.

“The Ministry may have to reconsider the case about your mental stability, M _i_ ster _P_ otter. _Flagelo._ ”

“And there is of course the matter of your OWLs. _Flagelo._ ”

“Whatever will happen if you don’t manage to pass any of them? Mmh? _Flagelo_.”

“It would be up to me to decide if you may continue your education, M _i_ ster _P_ otter. What do you think?”

Harry at last got enough air in his lungs to form words. “I hope you don’t deprive me of these lovely chats, Dolores.”

“Ah, still so cheeky. _Tormento!_ ”

***

Bravery is not about facing your enemies. Not always.

Seamus Finnigan got up and apologized to Neville for his callousness talking about crazy people and St. Mungo, and then he apologized to Harry and said you couldn’t believe everything you read in _The Prophet_.

But because he did that in the middle of the Great Hall, Umbridge gave him detention for disrupting the lunch hour.

It wasn’t good. Harry waited for him at the end of the corridor to Umbridge’s office with a bottle of water and a candy bar. He helped Seamus climb the stairs back to the tower and insisted it was all right and Seamus did not have a pile of hippogriff manure instead of brains and really, Harry hadn’t minded his words that much, and appreciated his apology no need to apologise again.

Harry had done all his crying a long time ago. He had been really close to dementors, he had suffered through the _cruciatus_ with Voldemort and still got his bearings right away to make his escape. After a session with Umbridge his arms and legs shook for a bit (ok, close to two hours, maybe three) and yes, it hurt, but the thought of pain hurts more than pain itself, if that makes sense. Quidditch practice could also hurt but they didn’t mind it because it was fun and so they didn’t think about the pain.

Umbridge had casted _flagelo_ on Seamus six times. His hands were shaking so much he could not keep hold of his wand. Harry helped him sit in the stairs landing so he could cry a bit before climbing the last part to the tower.

***

Ron could be a real arse half of the time. But Harry had never known such a true friend.

At the end of the class, when all potions had been bottled and tagged, Ron told him to go ahead and waited for most of the class to leave before knocking down three cauldrons and the drawer with the silver spoons. This guaranteed that everyone in the vicinity left in a hurry.

“Weasley, ten points from Gryffindor.” Snape didn’t give him detention. Few teachers were giving them, if it meant sending the child to Umbridge.

“Yes, sir, sorry sir” said Ron. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just that I am very worried for my friend Harry because the Headmistress said that he better go back on his word before the end of the course or she will recommend his commitment to St. Mungo. And even if that doesn’t work out, she won’t let him come back when he fails his OWLs.”

“Be more careful in the future, Weasley.”

***

It was March, but Severus went to the February town of Felbrigg in Norfolk because he had too many things in his mind to notice when a month ended before its due time.

There was a short and very nice path between the church and the manor. Severus walked there and circled the manor twice before apparating away to Danby Wiske.

(Dan- because it was the place you went when there was danger. And Wiske sounded like Risk and since no one knew about this Severus was free to make as many bad jokes as he wanted).

There was another soft pop fifteen seconds after Severus apparated there. From his position Severus could see a small figure turn around over itself and then dive quickly behind a tree when it spotted Severus.

He was being followed. Not by a wizard, because a wizard couldn’t guess where he was apparating, but by something. Perhaps a house elf, a magical stalker most likely. A being that would follow you wherever you went, untiring. It had no conscience so it could not be threatened and it could not be bribed. It knew only that it would follow you until you arrived (or returned) to a certain place or until it was called back by the wizard that had set it.

Perhaps Voldemort was finally feeling doubtful, or the ever present suspicions of the Order had increased (the endurance of Fletcher’s old hat was remarkable), or it was a toy from the Ministry (Severus was inclined to think this was the case) so Umbridge knew if and when the teachers went to contact Dumbledore.

It didn’t matter. The stalker would follow and all it could report back was that Severus went to a small shop in Suffolk where he acquired a softcore pornographic novel and a pair of nylon tights.

(Nylon tights were an excellent thing. The very best thing. Severus owned over a dozen pairs, all still in their original packaging. You bought them and people’s minds instantly went down a certain path. There were few objects that could provide such misdirection for such a small disbursement. Glorious thing, the number one tool for a spy).

On a side of the shop, a dusty corner seldom visited even by the owner, was a small counter with writing materials and a grid full of metal slots. And here was the thing, perfectly absurd and delightfully bureaucratic: For the unreasonable price of a galleon and eleven sickles, you could buy a mailbox to send and receive messages for the next three years.

It was unreasonable because you would have to send quite a lot of post to make the price worth it and if you surpassed a certain size or weight, the box would reject your letter. So you would have to send quite a lot of very short light messages to get your money’s worth. It was also actually quite inconvenient because it required you going to the shop and giving the password to send or receive your mail, rather than doing it from the comfort of your own home with an owl. People would have done with it all together if they knew how to remove it, but no one knew exactly where the mailboxes where. They knew where the slots to the boxes where (“Over fifty locations through the United Kingdom!” was what the old leaflets advertised) but not the boxes themselves. Severus suspected either the Department of Mysteries or the TARDIS.

This private mailbox system was also, because of its official status and it being developed sometime in the 19th century, ridiculously well protected. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could open the box, other than the designated password. Going there was inconvenient and risky in a way, but it was better than an owl. Owls could be followed. The floo network could be intercepted. This guaranteed that the message would remain safe until someone with a password went to retrieve it from any of the fifty slot locations.

Say, Severus could leave a message in Suffolk and Remus could go and get it somewhere in Torquay.

Still they didn’t dare using it often. Severus was being watched and Remus couldn’t show his face in many places. They also wrote under a code, so if any of them were found with the message, it wouldn’t reveal anything compromising. Severus was the last line of defence and they couldn’t risk revealing his identity.

Today Snape wrote of the lack of sun in his garden and how a poisonous toad was ruining all his plants, particularly the new lily breed he was growing. He was thinking that the only solution would be to uproot the flower at the earliest opportunity. Never mind that he didn’t know where to move the lily, it had to be moved.

The whole point was to keep Harry safe and happy. Hogwarts failed on the second requisite but with Voldemort returned one would think the first had become more important. Only now Hogwarts wasn’t safe either and frankly Severus thought they could take the risk to go elsewhere. Maybe if they kept moving, and perhaps even managed to get Harry out of the country, it would all be well.

Or not well. Severus didn’t kid himself about the war that was coming, that had already started, it was going to be bad. All he wanted was for Harry not to have to fight it. He had already stopped the last one, let others fight this one.

He had space for a single more line and that was all. Severus didn´t know what he could say and so he wrote nothing. The paper was perfumed, a subtle mix of orange and caramel that he hoped would last for a few days.

***

It took Harry longer to recover after that last session with Umbridge. In fact, the shaking stopped by the next day, but Harry felt as if he hadn’t recovered at all. As if something inside had been shaken loose. Something that spoke in Remus’ voice, and Severus’, and Sirius’ and that female voice he couldn’t remember, it said that he didn’t have to suffer this.

It said: Go.

What are you doing here? Go!

Go before it gets worse. Go before Umbridge breaks you down and lets the monster loose. Go and if you get yourself killed, that’s still better than staying and becoming… something else.

“Now, Mr. Potter. What did you dream?”

“I dreamed of an hourglass, professor Willington.”

“The passing of time is surely an acknowledgment or your usual juvenile an immature behaviour Mr. Potter.”

“I agree, professor.”

The time for adulthood was coming. Unbeknownst to him, change was brewing in Hogwarts and he was the little confused butterfly that set it all in motion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pilfered the line “resistance was often framed with the language of obedience” from a history book on 17th century Spain (Ruth MacKay, 1999). The book in itself is a bit dry, but that line shook me to the core. I think it beautifully expresses the possibility of fighting back while keeping the appearance of dutiful obedience and submission. Apparently that was very much a thing in Spain at the time.  
> As far as I know there is no such book on Resistance as the one described here. What I had in mind was those books for children and young adults with humorous historical anecdotes, only with more fighting.


	8. The Riots and The Night Nobody Slept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a special chapter. Not short enough to put it like a little extra with the regular update but not long enough to deserve a Satudary update all by itself. It also contains the very first line I wrote for this fic. FInally!

The Riots and The Night Nobody Slept

Presented to you by

 

The Student Union and Interhouse Solidarity Party

General Secretary: Draco L. Malfoy

Speaker: Suruchi Subadar

Coordinator of Student Activities: Blaise Zabini

Activism: Frederick Weasley, George Weasley, Lee Jordan.

 

Here is the thing, people hear cunning and ambition and they imagine people standing in dark corners plotting. They are not wrong, but they are not right either.

Ask a Ravenclaw. A Ravenclaw will tell you that wisdom and cunning are not the same. Wisdom requires you to have the information, cunning is about finding a solution even when you don’t have all the information available. Cunning is about what to do with the little information you possess.

Ask a Ravenclaw, one who enjoys language. They will tell you that ambition is merely a negatively viewed synonym of drive, of passion. Ambition gets you things. You may think an ambitious person craves gold, power, but some ambition _change_.

The Slytherin students had been deprived of objectives. They were rich (some of them), they wanted to still be rich. They wanted some more political power and blood status was a way to get it. But that was nothing more than crumbs. They were all dressed up and had nowhere to go.  

Draco read the book, Harry’s book. He read it in one sitting the third night after his return to the manor on Christmas. And then he couldn’t shut up about the book and read excerpts aloud to Zabini on the train back to Hogwarts.

But the book was too short. It was like a catalogue of wonderful things, showing you what existed but you couldn’t have. Fortunately, not everyone in Slytherin was pureblooded. They couldn’t be, there weren’t that many of them to begging with. That was the whole point of blood purity.

So Draco allowed a first year to use his broom in exchange for a letter home asking for certain books. Draco got to read about Marx (not to be confused with Mars, confectionary manufacturer). He read what other people who had read and understood Marx later wrote. He learned the concept of super-structure and commodities, and it all made perfect sense to Draco. Draco who was blonde and pureblood and a Prefect and member of the Inquisitorial Squad and on the Quidditch team and yet profoundly unhappy despite all this.

He got his hands on a book by a French man who did not know how to properly punctuate his sentences, but who had very interesting ideas about power and explained that money was but a side of it. Power was also in who you knew and how you spoke. Power was an illusion, really, dressed as _distinction_.

Draco lifted his eyes from the muggle book (hidden with the covers of the DADA book because Potter came up with really good ideas as long as they were not school related) and looked across the room with its floating candles. It was a muggle book, _muggle_ , yet it spoke to him words of truth like no other.

Words of truth that took the lies apart. Words that brought freedom from his father’s chains. Words that dispelled the illusion and forced you to take a hard look and wonder if that thing you want is really worthy, wonder if you want it all.

***

With Umbridge as Headmistress, everything should have been fine in Slytherin. More than fine.

It was not. The Slytherins were waking. At last they had found a purpose.  They didn’t ambition power, though. It was much simpler. Draco merely wanted an answer.

The question was: Why? Why are we doing this? Who said this was good, that this was the thing to want? Why are we playing along and dancing to their tune?

This is a very dangerous question to ask.

It should have ended with two or three Slytherins in detention for disruptive behaviour and nothing else. Few people in Slytherin understood what Draco was talking about (it wasn’t difficult, but the explanation was lengthy, or maybe it _was_ difficult. Draco was pretty smart, after all). Regardless, no one outside their house was going to pay attention to them. Merlin, they had joined the Inquisitorial Squad, hadn’t they? Who would listen? Yet Draco now saw the stupid badge for what it was, another false prize, another chain to keep them in place. _I have something that you don’t so I will fight to hold on to it and you will fight to take it from me and we will not look at the person who gave me the stupid meaningless badge._

But if it is meaningless, then you don’t have to fight for it. You don’t have to do any of those things you didn’t want to do to begin with but that you were thinking of doing because it is expected and because you are supposed to want the prize. If the goal is meaningless then you don’t have to go down the established path. _You can choose_.

Most Slytherins had a very narrow path already established for them. This idea of choosing resonated with them. It resonated with Draco, who felt as if he had a porcelain corset constricting his chest, a corset that was now developing cracks at the thought that maybe parents weren’t always right. Maybe disappointing them wasn’t so terrible, if they were putting value in the wrong things.

Maybe Draco wasn’t a bad son.

What a thought to have.

“House pride means nothing!” explained Draco in very loud whispers while he repeatedly hit the Slytherin badge in his robes. “All I’m saying is that the house division is merely a mechanism imposed by the super structures to keep the lower classes, that is us the student body, unable to unite and demand more rights.”

Crabbe and Goyle were completely lost, but Zabini and Nott were listening and nodding their heads.

“They are forcing us to compete to destroy any semblance of solidarity, all so they can exercise power unchallenged” Draco went on.

“I told you to keep quiet during study hour, Mr. Malfoy. Ten points from Slytherin” said professor Willington as he walked down the tables of the Great Hall.

It should have ended there. Nothing more than a murmur between a few students. But then Draco abandoned the language of his readings and said something easy to understand and memorize.

“But that’s just it! Don’t you see? It is just a symbol of their ill acquired domination!” Draco had a feverish look about him. It was so clear to him! “The point system is a lie!”

Which even Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs could comprehend. The points meant nothing. They didn’t even hand out a special gift to the house that earned the House Cup at the end of the year. _Hurray, you won, you are better, look at his cup behind the glass._ That was it. It was just a system to enforce discipline and avoid unionizing by turning the ~~working class~~ students against each other and stopping them from confronting the teachers.

All this was explained later, while in the middle of a lecture of History of Magic. As long as you didn’t speak louder than Binns, you could do whatever you wanted there. Like indicating to your fellow classmates the absurdity of the house rivalries and how it benefited the governing powers.

Harry wasn’t sure how, but he suspected he had been the spark of the change that came over the school, even if Draco was the engine. He was actually quite pleased and a little bit scared because the next time a Prefect took points from someone breaking the curfew, the student, a stressed Ravenclaw that had been studying nonstop for the NEWTs, laughed in his face like a maniac.

“The points are a lie” said the girl, half laughing and half screaming. “I can stay outside if I want!”

“Miss Turpin, I must remind you-”

“You have no authority over me!” she seemed surprised and elated. “It means nothing.”

“Miss Turpin you are not making any sense.”

“Exactly, Roderick. It doesn’t make sense. _We_ produce the points with our conduct. Whether you choose to acknowledge them or not is irrelevant. _The points belong to us_. Ahahaha!”

***

What this meant was that absolutely nothing happened if your house didn’t win the House Cup. Draco would say nothing happened because the House Cup was a symbol of status that relied on their shared acknowledgement. But what the majority got was that there was no punishment for losing points beyond what your house mates said to you. If everybody agreed that it didn’t matter, then it didn’t matter. You can choose not to enact peer-pressure.

“This! This is what we have been saying for years” exclaimed Fred Weasley, who had lost a total of five hundred and seventy five points from Gryffindor.

“You expressed it beautifully”, conceded George, five hundred and seventy two points lost.

With Hermione as Prefect the twins had had to find a new place to do their experiments and sell their wares outside the Gryffindor tower. It was just their luck that it happened to be the same place the Slytherins chose for their foundational meeting. There was a bunch of third and fourth years who had come to buy some candy blinking in surprise at Draco’s and Blaise’s speech. They left with their boxes of glow in the dark bubblegum and a very interesting proposition to bring to their houses.

Come Monday Hufflepuff was leading the house classification, something that very rarely happened. The house had a grand total of seven points because someone had said “bless you” when Professor Sprout sneezed.

And once you stopped caring about points, you stopped caring about other things. Like punishments. Why were they showing up for detentions? Why were they allowing that toad to torture them?

There were a few undecided students. They didn’t remain so for long after Suruchi Sudabar, Slytherin Head Girl and newly appointed Speaker of the Student Union Interhouse Solidarity Party, had a chat with them. She had always planned for a career in politics. She was just getting started earlier.

***

“Now, who is in for a bit of revolution?” Blaise Zaibini, Coordinator of Student Activities, had plenty of ideas and a copy of The Book full of bookmarks.  

“I have a hammer” announced Lee Jordan. “And a megaphone.” Because he hadn’t returned it after the last Quidditch match.

“We have sooo many things to show you” said Fred, or George, while the other laughed manically and opened a chest emblazoned with a purple W.

It was three weeks before the night nobody slept.

 

 

The Committee for Witches’ Advancement

Chaired by Pansy Parkinson

Vice Chair: Padma Patil

Treasurer: Hannah Abbot

Secretary: Ginevra Weasley

 

Pansy got a hold of The Book that had Draco so excited as to be neglecting school work. She read it sitting cross-legged on her bed and yes, she saw what he was talking about, and all that socialism sounded really interesting. But Draco was _wrong_. He was chattering about the wrong people.

Pansy Parkinson read the book and met the love of her life. She fell in love with a woman (big shock there), described with barely three hundred words. She had her heart broken when she read about her death, trampled by the king’s horse.

She stared at the book’s grainy photo of Emily Davison. She lay in bed and thought that she didn’t want to marry a rich pureblooded wizard. She didn’t want to fulfil her family’s expectations, she wanted to surpass them in every way.

Why should she just be a wife?

Two days later there was a meeting in the girl’s bathroom of the second floor open to all the female students from the fifth year onward, although there were some fourth years too because Ginny Weasley was a bully who would not take no. There, the Committee for Witches’ Advancement was born. It was a testimony to Pansy’s drive for the cause that she accepted Granger’s presence even though she despised the girl.

There was a lot of discussion, from family and societal expectations to complaints about the school uniforms. Because they boys were wearing baggy shapeless robes whereas the girl’s robes were more form fitting and cute, yes, but they restricted arm motion and _did not have pockets._ A girl needs pockets.

“We will get pockets, sisters”, promised Pansy. They would get pockets and they would get _heard_. Because it wasn’t just about pockets, it was about everything else.

***

It is a common saying. “Fight like a girl.” “Scared like a girl.” “Scream like a little girl.”

There is, however, nothing like “wild as pack of female teenagers” and yet they are some on the most dangerous creatures in nature. To the hormones and the usual pubescent drama there is the added realization that the world is settled unfairly against you and _you are not allowed to show any anger for it_.

Well, teenager girls are angry.

It all happened so subtly, Pansy didn’t see it coming. Two boys saying something stupid in the corridors. Six wizards mentioned in History of Magic for every witch. A magazine advising how to best ride a broom when you are a girl. A professor giving more points to a boy in class even though his work wasn’t better than the girls’, it was just as good if not worse; but _he_ got the points for all they mattered now.

And then Professor Umbridge, with her high pitched voice and her pink everything, calling her aside in the Great Hall and saying something along the lines of Pansy, sweetheart, could you see if Draco is all right? He has been acting strange lately. Have you two fought, petal? Is he upset with you?

And then Pansy was screaming “no” loud enough for the whole Great Hall to hear. No, she would not. No, it wasn’t her job to take care of Draco or any other boy. No, it wasn’t her responsibility when boys misbehaved.

“Now, pumpkin, I understand you are upset” said Umbridge, still sweet because she was always nicer to the Slytherins. “But that is not proper behaviour for a young lady. We must always keep decorum.”

And then… Time jumped and Pansy found herself on top of the Slytherin table screaming that she was not a doll. None of them were dolls. She was a girl, a human, and she could be ugly if she wanted to. She didn’t _owe_ anyone her beauty or her meekness. And she knew, she knew it was an overreaction but there had been so many times when she didn’t react at all because she wasn’t allowed!

There were some calls of support and many of confusion. She spotted Ginny Weasley on the distance, poking her brothers so they would start clapping. There was also some loud indignation and the unequivocal order to step down this very instant, young lady, I really don’t know what you parents will say of your unbecoming conduct. Such a shame!

Shame.

She didn’t know what exactly was going through her head, other that the rage was so much that she could barely breath and all her readings were tumbling in her mind. All she knew was that she hated that woman and all she represented. She hated the way she looked and she hated that she made it seemed like it was the only possible option, the _proper_ option. She hated that they had to be modest and that they had to be cute.

A thought came. She struggled a bit because this is actually pretty hard to do when you are wearing long sleeves (and first thing after this, she was nicking one of Draco’s robes with their pockets and their arm room). Pansy did not actually want to expose herself in front of the whole school, she merely wanted to make a point to Umbridge’s face of what was and wasn’t _proper_. Teach her about shame.

She took her bra off, with minimum nudity. She threw it in the air and kept it floating there for a whole minute while it burned.

This time, when she screamed that they were people, not dolls, they listened.

“This is shameful! Scandalous!” Umbridge was yelling as other girls started to burn their brassieres too and demanded their right to wear trousers and pockets and to be called by their last names, like the boys were, and they had so many suggestion for changes in the curriculum!

“Professor Snape, control your student!”

Umbridge turned towards Snape like a mongoose facing a cobra and Pansy wasn’t sure who was who, only that she had far more fear and respect for Snape.

Snape looked up from his fish fillet, his right hand holding half a lemon he was squeezing over it. He had a perfectly surprised air, as if he couldn’t fathom why she would ask him.

“It is not my place to police a woman’s body or choice of clothes, Headmistress.”

His words, delivered in his usual mellow tone, were followed by a roar. The most alert male students also rose and cheered because they could see this was not the time to argue practicalities with the girls and it was better to nod along. The Weasley twins let out a quickly put together set of fireworks, charmed to explode in clouds of purple after a quick consultation with Granger.   

***

Severus got the unwanted and unnecessary confirmation of his long held suspicion that professor Trelawney did not have a bra to burn. She wasn’t a professor anymore, why was she even there?

***

It was nine days before the night nobody slept.

 

 

The Platform for Race, Blood, and Species Equality

President: Hermione Granger

Secretary: Dean Thomas

Muggleborn representative: Justin Finch-Fletchley

House-elf representative: Dobby

Non-human representative: Firenze

 

Hermione had created the SPEW the year before because she was honestly disgusted by the treatment of house-elves. Now she had had time to think and ample opportunity to watch other examples. It was not about house-elves, not exclusively.

She knew about the werewolf discrimination, because you couldn’t spend twenty four hours in the vicinity of Harry Potter without it being pointed out and, well, he was right, wasn’t it? She had seen how even the most well meaning wizards spoke of werewolves as if they were more animal than human. Harry still rescued baby birds in the spring, kept them in a box in his bedroom and nursed them to health. You couldn’t convince Hermione that he had been raised by a savage beast.

She had seen the fear in Hagrid, the fact that he had to hide his giant nature.

And then, after the summer, Hermione had remembered to look back at herself. Muggleborn. Mudblood. They didn’t really study the last war in History of Magic, spent most of the time with the giant wars and the goblins uprisings, instead. But she knew. She knew what her lot was going to be in this second war. She had prepared for it.

Actually, the other muggleborn students weren’t too afraid. Dean and the Creevey brothers and that third year girl. They were fine. But if you looked at the halfbloods they were not fine. They knew. Their families remembered. Hermione understood that part of the reason why people were willing to believe the Ministry was simply because they did not want the alternative to be real.

She wasn’t planning on reforming SPEW to include more people. She had enough things in her mind and the OWLs were approaching. Hermione was busy. But Umbridge had used freaking measuring tape with Flitwick. Flitwick! The most patient professor in the whole school. The man who shrugged it off when Neville did something wrong and sent him flying across the room. The man who never ever had a bad word for Harry. Umbridge had used measuring tape with him and she had sacked Firenze from the school quick as lighting.

And the blood division was coming back already, wasn’t it? The Ministry denied that Voldemort was back, but his ideology had returned. Maybe it never went away.

There was an initial meeting in the common room in Gryffindor. Every muggleborn and halfblood came and Hermione could tell they were worried. How bad can things be when the most brave students start to be concerned?

The next meeting was held behind Hagrid’s hut. When the Slytherins came everybody drew their wands out convinced they were going to pull something. But no, they were there to listen. Not everybody was a pureblood in that house and they had heard things.

The Platform for Race, Blood, and Species Equality came alive that day. They had statutes, a clear organigram and badges (the latter designed by Dean). Most importantly, they had Hermione Granger, who had read _A History of Hogwarts_ thrice and who possessed a ridiculous ability to understand laws.

The Platform made a call for action because Dean Thomas felt constantly attacked and was itching to do something back even if it was not clear who exactly was going after him, after them. Plus, half the members of the platform were also in the Student Union and Interhouse Solidarity Party and they were tired of so much talk but no action beyond ignoring the points.

The Sunday talks continued until Monday. On Tuesday during the second class period, the fifth year students walked out of professor Willington’s class. The same happened with the sixth years and the fourth years. They went in, sat down, and at the first sign of Willington’s usual blood discrimination, they closed their books and walked off.

Most importantly, they were followed by the pureblood students. There is nothing like the support of the privileged. Their acknowledgement that it is wrong.

***

Once you walk out of class, it is so easy to keep going. To not return to that class or to walk off again and again.

***

Suruchi Sudabar was perfectly pureblooded. She also had more genetic diversity than most because her family had avoided the worst effects of inbreeding by marrying with foreign pureblood wizards.

(Pureblood wizards up to the twelfth generation. Not even Goyle could claim such a clean tree and look at him. Or the Blacks.)

She had, however, felt the sting of a similar kind of discrimination. When she heard that Willington was commenting on students’ names, her eyes burned.

Suruchi Sudabar came to talk to Hermione and they went down to the kitchens where Hermione gave an abridged version of her usual elvish welfare speech. Then Suruchi took her place and gave a beautiful talk about what it meant to be a house-elf and what a glorious gift their labour was. She noted, however, that it was their responsibility to ensure that said gift was received only by deserving people. What a way to despoil them of the glory of their work, when said work was offered to those that did not appreciate it. Hermione’s radical ideas of freedom and a salary upset the elves but after listening to her Suruchi’s words on responsibility and merit were sweeter to the elves’ ears.

Hermione and Suruchi were wearing identical pillbox hats. Suruchi’s was pink and not unlike something that Umbridge could have worn. They smiled. They looked beautiful and non-threatening. Suruchi had spent two evenings putting together their outfits so it would be so.  

Witches were mentioned once for every five to six wizards in History of Magic. The names of Granger and Sudabar would be recorded, however, as the agitators behind the very first strike of house-elf history.

It was four days before the night nobody slept.

 

 

The Riots and The night nobody slept

 

Three quarters of the student population stopped attending Divination and DADA. Everyone stopped going to detention.

Umbridge answered, of course she did. The first day she took points and doubled the number of detentions until she realized the ineffectiveness of that method over a cold dinner (for the house-elves were not cooking for her). Perhaps, if Willington had not been such overtly racist or is she had sacked him, the movement would have lost steam after an early easy victory and things would not have escalated. But she didn’t. What she did was write to the parents of each student who failed to show to class or detention.

The howlers started to arrive during lunch. Most of them were addressed to pureblood students or those whose families worked in the Ministry. All but six students of the Slytherin house received at least one, with most of them getting two or three.

Suruchi burned hers in mid flight, but could not avoid the shrill scream of “dishonour” and “shame” that was heard over the table. Pansy Parkinson had a grand total of seven howlers and one of them was throwing sparks and dripping a black dense liquid like tar.

They were threatening and they were humiliating and Umbridge presided over it all from her seat at the head of the professor’s table with a smug and satisfied little smile.

“… _shameful_ …” “…punishment…” “… embarrassment…”

(She would never know how close she was to be murdered by Minerva and Severus. She would never know that Flitwick put a bad odour curse in her shoes).

“… no concern for your family…” “… I have no son…” “… disgrace!”

None of the Weasleys received one, although they did get warning letters from their brother Percy. Neville kept eating, unconcerned by the words of his grandmother and his great uncle Algie screaming at him in stereo. He was trembling less and less this year, in fact it could be said that Neville had reached his limits of damns to give some weeks ago and was since living a free life. But it was only them, Neville and the Weasleys and the muggleborns. Everyone else was looking down, feeling the fist of embarrassment close on their stomachs.

“… there will be consequences…” “… do you have any idea of what will happen?...”

Ernie McMillan hid his face between his arms while two howlers from his mother and aunt screamed on either side of his head. Marietta Edgedcombe was hiding under the table, crying. Draco pretended not to care and acted as if nothing happened, but his hand was shaking faintly and he could not bring the fork to his mouth. Seamus didn’t have a howler, but he looked as if he had received one when he read his mother’s letter. The fact that the howlers were coming in mass should have helped to mitigate the effect, but instead it aggravated it. It meant they were really in trouble, all of them.

Knock. Knock.

Clap.

Knock. Knock.

Clap.

It was Harry’s first overt action, despite all of Umbridge’s accusations that he was the leader of the movement. Two knocks on the table and a clap of hands. Something so recognisable that every muggleborn student had joined him for the third set. Something so simple that everyone else was able to pick it up immediately.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

CLAP.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

CLAP.

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

**CLAP.**

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

**CLAP.**

Everyone was clapping. Everyone. Even Gregory Goyle and he certainly didn’t know what was going on, but he did know that as long as they clapped together the sound would be too loud to listen to the howlers and the voice of his father calling him a troll.

And then the muggleborns sang, led by Harry who did know how to sing even if he didn’t have the best voice (not the worst either). The sound rose like a wave to the ceiling of the Great Hall and hung there, vibrant, drowning the howlers, being _louder_. They could even hear a guitar playing on the background although that was impossible.

No one noticed Severus’ air of satisfaction, evident despite his careful disguise. He had been the one to introduce a nine year old Harry to Queen.

A howler is just a loud voice with the intention to shame and humiliate, but those are made-up emotions. You don’t have to be ashamed if you and your group decide you don’t.

***

Somehow, Umbridge got the Ministry to send her half a dozen Special Operators to help maintain order in the school.

Special Operator was a nice term to define someone who was not good enough to be an Auror. Someone who rather than chasing dark wizards was pursuing underage students. To be fair, they looked extremely uncomfortable at the notion of running after students and dragging them to Umbridge’s office for detention. Not that many people actually got to her office. By some strange coincidence or another, most of them managed to slip through.

(Someone was giving the heads-ups to the ghosts, who then ran to warn the students when a S.O. was coming to get them. They had no idea who was it but they all suspected it was a professor.)

The twins had stopped attending classes and were having the time of their lives running interference and helping people escape detention, even if they did get hit by a curse or two.

If one looked at it coldly, Umbridge should win. They had all been threatened with expulsion, their families had gotten involved and there were adult wizards patrolling the corridors. Adult wizards that would cast _petrificus totalus_ and drag you to Umbridge for a reflective session that involved quite a lot of _flagelo_. All this should be enough to squash any revolutionary spirit.

On the other hand, look at how afraid the Ministry was of them! And it was not as if they were merely complaining, they had made progress. Progress that should never had been necessary to begin with. But now the muggleborns were not afraid of walking by themselves and they did not dread going to class (they were barely going to class, but when they did, they did not expect to be called lacking, usurpers, monsters). And no one had bloody scars in their hands.

(Ginny got the giggles when she heard Harry had told Umbridge he didn’t know how to write).

Perhaps if Umbridge had kept pressuring their families, they would have caved. No one wants to be the reason your parents lost their jobs. But although Umbridge was very ambitious, she was also extremely short-sighted and kept her focus on the school.

She announced new disciplinary measures and she set a curfew. Right after dinner all students had to go back to their houses “to increase and ensure the best studying environment”. The Special Operators had the authority to use spells at their discretion against students breaking the curfew.

Blaise Zabini sneered at the latest decree. Seriously, home by five thirty?

“They don’t want us to spend more time than necessary with the other houses” said Draco, grudgingly impressed that they had finally figured out that their strength lay in union.

“But I need to go to the library!” cried Cho Chang, who was after all a Ravenclaw. “They can’t take the library from us.”

There were a few other cries from other stressed Ravenclaws. There had been quite a few heavy hints of what their current behaviour would mean for any future job prospects. They were hoping that glowing marks would help balance that.

They called for an emergency meeting during dinner, the heads of the three groups whispering furiously over what to do. All groups were composed of people from different houses and, specially for the Committee, obeying this rule was as good as disbanding. Obeying this rule meant going back to physical punishments and living with lies and not fighting back.  

Umbridge had conjured a big pink glowing clock that floated three meters above the professor’s table. It had taken her four attempts and the numbers were in disorder. Everyone who had taken an OWL level potion class was familiar with Snape’s perfect purple countdown watches. In the seventh year class sometimes he had as many as ten different ones, for when to add an ingredient and how long something had to macerate. No one was impressed with her clock and Flitwick had scoffed at it before coughing noisily to cover it up.

Still, the hour hands were coming closer to the curfew time. There was a sound of bells, harps, and flutes that no doubt Umbridge considered cute and delicate. She rose from her seat and coughed twice.

Pansy and Hermione sent twins glares at her. Oh, how they hated that fake prim cough. Pansy and Hermione were reaching an understanding.

“Well, children, I think it’s time for you all to go study and rest in the safe and loving bosom of your houses.” Her words were followed by a tense silence. McGonagall looked down at her plaid clothed chest as if fearing to having inadvertently sprouted something. Snape was clutching some invisible pearls on his neck. _Bosom!_ Flitwick was very carefully not looking at Professor Sprout, who did have an ample and motherly bosom.  

“Please, follow your Head of Houses. There will be a Ministry appointed Special Operator at the end of each line to help keep stragglers on the right path.” She smiled again sweetly. One had to recognize her commitment to the official story and her acting as if everything were all right. Everything was fine! No one was trying to break down Potter for saying the truth and having Special Operators in the school to impose discipline was perfectly normal.

The students started to move, shuffling slowly to the doors and glancing back at the bunch of Gryffindor and Slytherin agitators that were still talking. It was one thing to elude the S.O.s on the corridors, it was another when they were standing a few steps from you and they were _adults_ and they had wands and they were angry. Many of them, after all, were younger than fifteen years old. They were practically children.

“Now, now.” Umbridge kept saying while two of the remaining Special Operators walked purposely towards the leader group. One of them grabbed Hermione by the arm and pushed her unceremoniously to the Gryffindor line. “Every young witch or wizard must quietly go to their house in the next ten minutes. Peep, peep!”

Because all eyes were on the group of leaders (Pansy was growling at the wizards for their manhandling. Merlin, Pansy was defending Hermione!) it wasn’t until the lines were half formed that they noticed that the Hufflepuff table had not moved and every single one of their members remained in their seats.

Umbridge’s smile froze in her face. No one ever expected any trouble from the Hufflepuffs. They were Hufflepuffs. Niceness was their trait.

(It was not. Everyone thought that but it was not).

“Now, children, let’s not be silly and form a line.” Umbridge still spoke with that irritating patronizing tone, as if they were all seven year olds.

The thing is, teenagers are not adults. They should not have to make adult decisions. They should not have that responsibility and that kind of suffering. But make no mistake, you can’t call them children. They won’t forgive you that. 

The Hufflepuffs stared at her in silence. It was a bit scary, actually.

“Sprout!” Umbridge coughed quickly to cover for her less than proper scream. She went on with a tight smile, speaking through closed teeth. “These are your students! Do. Some. Thing.”

Professor Sprout looked at her table with a lost expression. “You heard the Headmistress…” she said, tentatively.

“We are sorry, professor” Anthony Rickett, Head Boy of the house, spoke with fear yet with full resolution. “But we are not moving.”

And they didn’t. That was the Hufflepuff strength. Professor Sprout tried twice more although with no conviction because she knew what she was dealing with. Umbridge screamed at them and called for the Special Operators to do something.

They looked at her for directions because no one wanted to jinx a pureblood wizard from a family with connections. At last two of the biggest S.O., men than were tall and burly, went to Anthony Rickett and told him to move. When he didn’t they grabbed him by the arm and observed how Anthony let himself fall to the floor and had to be dragged to the door like a particularly heavy and uncooperative sack of turnips. They did this with five more students before giving up, because the students didn’t stay put and kept going back to the table as soon as they turned their backs. The others houses were shuffling back to their tables. Students were exchanging scarves and house badges. Some were dropping to the floor in preparation to being dragged. There was quick consultations on how to best shake off a _petrificus_.

Umbridge drew her wand out and things got heated. The leaders of the Party, the Committee, and the Platform, arrived to the quickest political agreement in history. The Special Operators drew their wands too and Umbridge said that any student not forming a line in the next minute would face instant disciplinary measures. They all knew what she meant, they had seen the trembling students leaving her office.

“They want to divide us!” Draco screamed. “They want to break us!” he was climbing on top of one of the tables. “Don’t let her!”

“Don’t just stand there! DO something!” ordered Umbridge, her hair starting to dishevel. She threw a poisonous look to the professors.

“Stop, don’t, come back” called Snape in a monotone that could be used to measure other monotones.

“Here, here” said Flitwick. He made some vague hand motion as if he were calling chickens.

“I’m just not sure that I have the authority for that, Dolores” said McGonagall, valiantly trying not to smile. She almost looked like Snape, the ways she relished the words.

“Listen to the lady” said Sprout. She did not specify who.

And then.

Of course the Hufflepuffs were the ones to make a sit in. Of course the Hufflepuffs were the ones who could stare down a wand pointed at them and still not move. They were earth and they were stone. They were unwavering.

Of course a Gryffindor would be the one to make a dramatic and brave move. Something flashy and historic. Something with a spark.

“Our house is in the North East tower” screamed a voice, too young to know whether it was male or female. “Behind the portrait of a fat lady!”

And then.

“The password is _Mimosaaaa!_ ”

Over a thousand years of tradition broken. You couldn’t just let the Gryffindors snatch all the glory, you couldn’t. Naturally everybody started to scream detailed instructions on how to reach the secret entrance of their houses. School uniforms were torn and trodden on the floor. Some particularly optimistic Special Operator attempted to cast _Stupefy_ on Hermione Granger ( _muggleborn_ , they always went after muggleborns first). He found himself flying out of the hall and landing near Filch’s office, courtesy of Ginny Weasley and the summer classes her brother Bill the curse-breaker gave her. When another Special Operator pointed his wand at Ginny, Pansy Parkinson jumped on top of him and discovered that she had misjudged Potter, punching people was very satisfying. Punching adult men was wonderful. She bit him in the arm.

Blaise Zabini had a quick consultation with the twins that could be summarized with “yes, everything, unload everything”, followed by a beautiful exhibition of fireworks, magic and chaos.

Snape took McGonagall by the arm and retired to a quiet corner to enjoy the spectacle. They were soon joined by other professors. Flitwick brought a bag of chocolate covered berries and shared with everyone.

(He never shared. They were _his_ ).

It was the roar of the girls. It was the wave that drowned the voices that would put fear in them. It was the decision to stand united against hate.

Nobody slept that night. The night that marked the start of the Hogwarts riots. The reclaiming of the school for the students.

***

Of course Umbridge fought to regain control. Of course she made ample use of her magic and ordered the Special Operators to fire at will. But it was just her, a mediocre witch even if she was a skilled social climber, and six wizards and witches that weren’t good enough to pass the Aurors exams. The other teachers certainly weren’t about to attack their own students.

They were jinxed and cursed and sabotaged at every opportunity. Fred and George couldn’t wish for a better advertising campaign for their products, especially when Flitwick praised their portable swamp. People learned to fear Ginny Weasley. People learned to revere Hermione Granger who had successfully cast a shield charm big enough to protect twelve students from the Special Operators.

Professor Willington didn’t officially resign but he abandoned his post nevertheless. It had become evident that students wouldn't tolerate his racism. He had been jinxed twice and someone had hit him in the face with a copy of Freud’s _On Narcissism_ while screaming about the utter bullshit that was dream interpretation. They were patrolling the corridor to his rooms waiting for him to show his face to jinx him again.

(Nobody knew how the muggle book had found its way to Hogwarts, but it appeared that Harry wasn’t the only one smuggling books in).

And in between all the fighting there were also open-house parties. They reasoned that given that they had revealed the locations of their houses they could just as well have a tour around them. Everybody agreed: Hufflepuff’s was the nicest. There was music and speeches and a list of suggested changes on the curriculum because, really, what they were studying in _History of Magic_ was boring and ridiculously sexist and racist. There was reading aloud of _the book_ , of which every Slytherin had an annotated copy. There was improvised football games with the muggleborns and halfbloods explaining the rules. There was some impromptu DADA lessons as a particular slap on the face of the Ministry, but not many because no one was good enough to teach. It wasn’t about Voldemort, although no one doubted his return anymore. It was about the Ministry denying it and doing nothing and leaving them unprotected. It was about Harry daring to speak the truth in between all the lies.

Moaning Myrtle was made honorary member of the Committee for Witches’ Advancement, because no girl should have to go cry alone in the toilets. Severus Snape was officially declared an Ally, although he declined going to the Committee’s meetings.

It all started on the night that nobody slept and it continued for the next five days.

***

It was also the night Harry Potter left Hogwarts. But what with everything else, including fighting the Special Operators, no one noticed.

Ron and Hermione knew, of course. They had helped him pack a week ago, when Harry announced he was leaving at the very first opportunity and hugged them goodbye. He wished he could have also talked to Severus, but all he could do was send him a lingering glance. Too many eyes around.

His disappearance, his escape really, wasn’t discovered until two whole days later. Umbridge had been quick to blame Harry for the riots, of course, but since he had the habit of not showing to detentions anymore and the students had stopped going to class, it was easy to miss his absence in the multicolour crowd.  

Harry Potter was finally spotted and detained at the breakfast table by a drained and beaten Special Operator who had been jinxed more times than he cared to admit in the last few days. Potter was sitting near his friend Ron Weasley and Umbridge went towards him with that quick walk when you don’t want to quite break into a run but still are in a rush. She had her wand in her hand and for once she was not smiling. She had the beginnings of a red rash on her neck.

“Now, you, young man…”

Only, on closer examination it seemed that it was not Harry Potter but Colin Creevey, who was about the same height and build and who for some reason had turned his light brown hair to black. He beamed at her as he wished her a good morning.

“I got him, Headmistress, I got him” announced Filch, dragging a student behind him by the neck of his robes.  He had been so happy at the notion of physical punishments for students, and now he had seen the castle fall into utter chaos. Filch was a bit at a loss and very tired. Very tired.

A closer look to the detained Harry Potter revealed that it was in fact Seamus Finnigan.

Someone had used eyeliner to paint a lightbolt scar on his forehead, and a pair of glasses. His glasses, dear Merlin, his glasses were drawn on his face.

“Ah, a master of disguise” deadpanned Severus as he left the Great Hall for his class (years first to third were still attending). “I see how he could have fooled you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Draco learns the concept of distinction from Pierre Bourdieu, who proposed some very interesting ideas while expressing himself in the most convoluted grammar possible. Everything else is your basic Marxism as used in literature studies.  
> The file for this fic is called “Depressed Harry and socialist Draco.docx” because all I wanted at first was to write an angry blonde anarchist Draco. I have no idea how it took me so long to reach this point.


	9. The end of the fifth year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief consideration of suicide, more as a dramatic reaction than serious thought, though. Also a bit of abuse, violence, etc. 
> 
> Also, for a better experience, after you read "play" and click the link (if you are not reading on mobile) read a bit slowly so you can go at the same time than the music.  
> If you are on mobile and don't want to listen to the music, that is fine too.

Harry was failing most of his classes and if he had gotten this far it was because all teachers were passing him and Hogwarts usually didn’t hold student until after the OWLs.

He had Acceptable in Potions, because he kind of liked it and he liked Severus. He also had Acceptable in Care of Magical Creatures for the same reason, and also Hagrid tended to overlook his mistakes and all the times he stole some creatures and released them in the Forbidden Forest.

He had Poor in Herbology (he didn’t know how, he liked plants) and Dreadful in Tranfisgurations and Charms, despite the teachers best efforts. He just couldn’t will himself to transform anything, _anything_. Specially if it was living. And he had never mastered even the basic _Wingardium Leviosa_. Also Poor in DADA. Got a Dreadful in History of Magic.

Astronomy was Poor too. Very generous, actually, he had been expecting a Troll. Same with Divination.

Of course given that he had no interest whatsoever in magic school and that he had been very depressed, it was understandable. By the time Harry had gotten used to captivity and was less miserable he was terribly behind in his work and he did not have the energy, time, or interest to make the extra effort.

But, during the years, he had also been thinking. Because as Severus had said, Harry was a bad student, but he wasn’t dumb.

What is the point of learning the exact words and intonation of a spell, if later on people learn non-verbal magic? Do you not need the words then?

What is the point of learning the exact wand movements, if people barely make them? You didn’t see Dumbledore flapping his arms like the first years did.

The point, of course, was that the average wizards would be able to do magic following these rules, as only the most powerful and diligent managed non-verbal magic let alone reduced wand motion.

(Ron could do it, and Ron didn’t think he was such a great wizard, so of course Harry took his word for it).

There were other questions that Harry’s brain came up with. Does it have to be that word exactly? Or is it just something used to remember and what matters is the intent? What if you have an accent or a lisp? Is Latin a magical language or is it just the language the inventor of the spell liked? Did Roman wizards have a lot of trouble during casual chats?

He thought about all this and, in a roundabout way, Harry found something that also required very careful word choice, pronunciation, intonation and movement.

Music. Song.

Because while he couldn’t transform a candle into a fork, he had been able to change the colour of the wallpaper in his bedroom and glaze the windows when he was a child. He hadn’t forgotten that.

Harry was failing most of his classes, but when he sang, he always had instrumental background. He was failing most of his classes, but he could do magic.

And if he put on his Walkman and closed his eyes and let himself feel the music, he could do just about everything. He had to concentrate a lot, sending his scrambling brain in a single direction, but he could.

(Except transfiguring living beings. He couldn’t do that.)

 

When they sang Queen on the Great Hall, there had been an electric guitar mixed with the clapping and the howlers. Harry had felt all of his body vibrate with the music.

 

Then came the curfew order and the Hufflepuffs and Fred and George let a fire dragon loose on the hall that chased Umbridge. Harry knew he wouldn’t get a better and louder signal that it was time to go. He hugged Ron and Hermione and ran back to the tower where his backpack and broom had been waiting and ready for a week.

(He was not supposed to have his broom with him, but Umbridge was fortunately terribly ignorant of anything sports related. She had taken his broom away, but she did not notice when Harry switched it with one of the old ones from the school).

He went to the aviary and through the low window with his backpack and the broom from Sirius. Not the Nimbus in which he had learned to fly and first hoped to flee, but a good and loved broom nonetheless. The broom with which they won the Quidditch Cup.

He put on the Walkman. He knew he had just the piece. A collection of tapes of classical music that some confused relative had gifted to one of Dean’s little sisters. The girls did not care for them, but were happy to trade them for two galleons worth of chocolate frogs and Dean made the exchange during Christmas.

(Harry suspected the girls may not have seen the chocolate and left the tapes abandoned in a corner of the house for Dean to pilfer).

He got on the broom and pressed [play](https://youtu.be/RdTBml4oOZ8?t=4).

The key was to go slowly, even if the flight was fast. You couldn’t rush through it. You had to appreciate it and honour the rhythm. Take each step during the right compass.

He circled the castle three times on his broom, letting the notes rise to him and engulf him before he was truly lost in the melody. A sweet breeze of violins first that slowly gained strength with the voice while the castle below came awake, came alight, and Harry rode the voice around the turrets and between the flying buttress. Goodbye Gryffindor tower, goodbye Astronomy tower, goodbye Ravenclaw tower and your lovely windows. Goodbye to the aviary and the roof below and all the good moments that it gave him, moments of clean and calm thought. 

Three more circles to gather altitude, quicker now. The high voices of the choir rising in unison much like the students in the castle.

And then, with the first torrent of voice, move away from the castle towards the gates and the translucent layer of magic wards. But don’t rush, not yet!  Relish the sweetness of the “a” and the “b” in the word _alba_. Don’t throw yourself headfirst with the first _vincerò_ , there will be more. It has to be by the end of the third one.

Pick the wave of violin and voice.

And let them take you out… Now!

The wards opened before him, sweet and soft like flowers, and Harry couldn’t resist lifting his hands from the handle and relishing the cold air on his face.

Harry flew out of Hogwarts, with the strings of violins lifting him to the sky.

***

He left.

And, inadvertently, put a curse over the whole school that no one would sleep that night. He was still new to this kind of magic.

He flew for hours, riding a full tape of opera arias twice. He started to descend a few hours before the sunrise, when exhaustion started to drag him down. He was still in the mountains and it would take him days before he got to Glasgow and left it behind.

It was like living inside a dream. He was free and out of Hogwarts, but he was also all alone, with no human company. It didn’t felt lonely, though. It felt calm and safe, like nothing bad could touch you while you were high in the mountains. They would protect you, those mountains that had the voices of old women.

***

Eventually Harry arrived south, away from the mountains, and figured out where he was and which way was home. Because he was going back there, no questions asked. Even though he knew it would not be the same (the garden had been destroyed, he remembered that, he wasn’t sure about the door) and it would probably be under watch and Remus had been hiding somewhere else, he still had to go. He had to see it. The mere thought of not seeing it put an ache in his chest, right where the new scar started.

While he was in the mountains he learned that the musical magic still rose the alarms of the Ministry, although not always and not accurately because he wasn’t using a wand. He learned how long he had between doing magic and a Ministry wizard arriving.

(Long enough. Harry was fast).

But Harry was leaving the mountains now and their old woman protection. Harry, like Icarus, had become a bit too overconfident on his flying away to freedom.

***

Officially, Hogwarts’ professors were appalled by the sudden uprising of the student body and supported the Headmistress’ labour in keeping order. In reality they were only concerned with keeping the first and second years safe and let everyone else do as they pleased. Twice McGonagall had been spotted sharing vital intel with Peeves.

Umbridge blamed Potter for everything, Potter and his noxious influence that she had already warned about. She got four more Special Operators (totalling ten now) and sent five of them to capture him while the other five struggled against the tide of the school.

Professor Willington still did not quit from his position but neither did he dare leave his rooms and he was surviving from whatever food the Special Operators brought him. Umbridge had to do her own cleaning because no house-elf would serve her. All her clothes were a bit dirty and a bit rumpled. Her food was always cold yet overcooked. She had been feeling an itch for weeks now.

It seemed like the student body was close to getting their demands: The expulsion of the Headmistress and the Divination teacher, the derogation of the last twelve education decrees, negotiations to change the existing curriculum, better inter-house relationships.

But Umbridge had prepared a counterattack. She called the Board of Governors, the organ in charge of Hogwarts’ administration, although lately it seemed as if Hogwarts answered directly to Minister Fudge.

It wasn’t about the power of the Board, although twice now it had managed to depose Dumbledore. It was about who was in there. Old Inotentius Sweepington was the president, but he was so old, not to speak of half deaf and half blind, that all business was conducted by the vice president.

Lucius Abraxas Mafloy.

You had to recognize he had got style. No one had the right to arrive after a short walk on a muddy trail through the unkempt school grounds with such elegance and with their hair still perfectly coiffed and undisturbed.

The heels of his boots clicked as he crossed the lobby to the hall where Draco and the rest of the students had camped. (The Hufflepuffs said they wouldn’t move from the table and for the most part they hadn’t). Perhaps it was because he shared an oddly similar air with Snape, but everyone instantly tensed at his presence. The man had a natural commanding air.

“Draco” he called. He did not have the same dominion of the voice as professor Snape, but it put a chill in many spines nonetheless. “Stop whatever this is immediately.”

Draco looked scared when he saw his father, his breath a bit heavier than usual. But he had been consumed by the fire. This was not a game and it was not the entertainment of an idle rich child. He was a convert.

“No”, he said. The first time he ever dared stand up to his father.

(Because that time he didn’t think about didn’t count. He had been speaking to a tribunal not to him).

“Draco, you are embarrassing yourself. Stop this nonsense.” Lucius spoke with proprietary coldness as he closed the distance between them.  “Recess is over. We will discuss the consequences of your actions later.”

Later… Draco could and would deal with whatever came later, the dark promise hidden in the spaces between his father’s words. Now he had a mission, he had a cause, something to defend, something _worth_ fighting for. He also had the certainty that punishment awaited him regardless of whether he obeyed or not. All it changed was the intensity of the punishment, and probably not that much.

“No”, he said. The second time he denied his father was easier.

Lucius backhanded him hard enough to make him give a step back. It was as if he had struck everyone in a ten meter radius. They all gasped and fell silent. A couple of first years ducked under the table.

“Don’t do that ever again. Now, I won’t repeat myself.”  

***

It was a hideously ugly fight and the revolution had its first loss. But Draco’s fall also ensured the continuity of the movement because he did not give in. He was the example that guaranteed that no one else would cave to the demands and threats of their families. If Draco Malfoy could stand up to his father, so could you. Your father could not be as terrifying and commanding, not at all.

Lucius struck him twice more, hard enough to echo in the perfectly silent hall and leave red marks in Draco’s cheeks. When Draco still refused to follow him, Lucius said that one more second of disobedience would see him disinherited.

“It’s your fortune and your lineage” Draco spat back. “I don´t care about it!” and then, because he had paid attention to the girls’ speeches. “I am not your property.”

Lucius said something else. Another threat perhaps, another order accompanied by a slap and a rough shove. Some said that he had started to draw his wand from the silver and ebony cane.

But no one was sure and no one remembered clearly, because whatever he did was completely overshadowed by Draco’s next action.

He took his wand. Black hawthorn with a silver core of unicorn hair.

No one remembered what Lucius had said but everyone recalled clearly the sound the wand made as Draco snapped it in two and threw the pieces at his father’s face.

***

Lucius had style and everything in him was beautiful and neat, but too often he sacrificed power and efficiency for the sake of drama. Severus for his part had worked all his life to be quick and efficient and as close to perfect as humanly possible, which is why he was so good at non verbal spells. Which is also why he could reduce wand movement and still get the same amount of power, even if it was not dramatic nor beautiful.  

Which is why he could cast _confundus_ on Lucius Malfoy completely undetected, and give Draco a much needed head start before his father got his bearings and went after him.

Take that, you traitorous, unappreciative, abusing, jerk.

***

If Draco concentrated on his anger, he wouldn’t notice anything else. Like the cold air, or the pain in his face, the hurt in his chest or the fact that he had just walked out of Hogwarts with no money or food or jacket and he had broken his wand and thrown the pieces to his father’s face. Ahahaha, what was wrong with him? He felt horrible and also great.

Perhaps he should just go find a bridge from which to jump. That would show his father. Only he wouldn’t leave a beautiful corpse. He would be bloated by the water and he hated knowing that because he would quite like to do something dramatic and 19th century style and also to stop hurting. Although perhaps that would be a good last insult. The beloved golden son, bloated and blue in death, while Draco rested at last.

He was so tired of being afraid.

Ah. Look. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to find a bridge after all, because in his mad dash out of Hogwarts and through the forest he had managed to come across a pair of bandits. He thought there weren’t any left, but here there were two perfectly scary men who would now rape him and cut his throat and maybe paint something with his blood. Ha!

(Draco should read less of Nott’s novels).

They were coming for him.

Not the bandits, those were just staring at him in puzzlement. The people of Hogwarts. His father and Umbridge’s little lackeys.

***

“If you try anything, I will kill you” whispered one of the bandits. The shorter one with strikingly blue eyes, like jewels. He had a hand over Draco’s mouth and a forearm pressed over his neck and had him squashed against the trunk of a tree.

“Don’t listen to him. No one is killing anyone” said the other bandit, the tall one with the long coat and short beard. “For Merlin’s sake, he is a child.”

They both tensed and went absolutely immobile as the wizards approached. The, um, murder-inclined man, kept his grip on Draco but his eyes followed the movement of the Special Operators as they trudged through the forest. The other bandit sneaked behind them for a bit, surprisingly quiet and light on his feet for someone so tall.

“Also, I am pretty sure he is a Malfoy” said the tall man when he returned. Draco could still hear the Special Operators, marching slowly and with difficulty somewhere above them in the sloping ground. “That would be kinslaying, Sirius.”

“Well, I had to keep him quiet, didn’t I?” said Sirius. “Sorry lad. You do have the Malfoy hair.” He smiled, apparently pleased with said hair. “Oh, sorry” he took his hand from his mouth, slowly though, as if he weren’t sure that Draco wouldn’t scream.

What a weird day, and it wasn’t teatime yet.

***

Seeing that there were wizards searching the forest, the two men decided to move to a more secluded place and Draco followed because, well, he didn’t have much else to do or places to be. Once they were further away they introduced themselves and yes, that was his second cousin, Sirius Black the mass-murderer, and the infamous Remus Lupin, kidnaper of renowned wizard toddlers.

Sirius took his leather jacket and put it on Draco because he had noticed he was only in his shirt sleeves and it distressed him extremely. He made him zip it up. It was a bit cold.

And then they asked what was happening in the school and why was he wandering in the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest and Draco wanted to play it cool but he may have cried a little bit while he told those strangers everything.

When he got to the part about his father, Sirius gave him a high five. In fact he made him repeat it three times until he got satisfactory sonority and strength. Remus pressed his shoulder in comfort and patted him twice with hands that were big and strong and safe. Neither of them called him an idiot for having broken his wand.

Merlin, Harry was a lucky bastard.

“And where was Harry during all this?” asked Remus.

“I don’t know. He went missing four or five days ago.”

“Missing?” Sirius barked. “But.”

“No one knows how. Or they are not telling. I only know Zabini and Granger had a few people assigned to running interference so they wouldn’t notice.”

Remus’ eyes were lost somewhere in the middle distance. He was smiling faintly and Draco had no idea that pride could look so soft and warm, like caramel.

“Let’s go, then” he said, offering his hand to help both him and Sirius up. (Sirius had seated himself by Draco’s side for no good reason). “We were coming for him, anyway. I suppose he didn’t get the word about it. Not surprising, given what has been going on. We should go before the operators come back this way, next they will be hitting Hogsmeade.”

“Moony, are we certain that he is outside Hogwarts? He could still be inside. With what’s happening in there, that woman must be panting for his blood. The Gryffindors are probably hiding him somewhere.”

“No, he left.”

“We both know Hogwarts has many wards. Students can’t simply leave.”

Remus raised his eyebrows to indicate the obvious. Now that Draco had calmed a bit and thought about it, he saw it was true. He had no idea how those two had gotten in, because Hogwarts had a very clear definition of in and out and horrible death traps to mark the limits.

“I have no doubt that while Dumbledore was here Harry was trapped. But with him gone and everyone in Hogwarts distracted and looking to the other side, I am sure he managed to leave.”

Draco hoped so. Draco just wanted to leave too, but he felt it was his duty to speak. Harry was nice, he really was. He started with that admission to soften his next words because everybody knew that Harry was a hopeless wizard and, yes, if the spells were up he had no chance of going anywhere.

Remus laughed.

He said that he had seen four year old Harry recreate the Be Our Guest scene with the house silverware, whatever that was. He could do magic all right, and he was gone from Hogwarts, of course he was.

So they left, following what could only very generously be called a path. They crawled through the short tunnel dug in between the roots of a huge oak tree (even though they could have circled it just as well) and passed under the mouth of three big rocks piled against each other and then found themselves in the outskirts of the forest, a couple of miles past Hosgmeade which made no sense because Hogsmeade was South and Draco thought they had been going West all the time. There was no time to ask any questions because apparently even from this distance they could tell there were too many lights in the village.

They scurried down a muddy slope to the river basin and walked a bit to the North, up to their knees in the water so as to not leave traces behind. It was a difficult and slow march and Draco couldn’t help but feel anxious that they were going so slowly and also right towards the Special Operators. Remus was walking point, the hem of his coat floating in the water, and Sirius was behind, his left hand on Draco’s shoulder as if he didn’t trust him not to fall head first in to the water and drown.

Draco would have said something, but the hand was actually very comforting.

There was a stone bridge. Not very high, but thick and wide. Draco couldn’t remember ever crossing it when he went to Hogsmeade. He had seen it from a distance but there was nothing of interest on the other side. Now they went under it and Sirius pressed a bit more on his shoulder, probably to indicate that he should not scream in terror, which Draco did not do thank you very much, but it would have been perfectly understandable if he did. 

A big patch of darkness had detached itself from the underside of the bridge and crawled down one wall. It did not have a face or a shape and it could not be described, although Draco was sure that from now on all boggarts would take that form for him. It could not be seen and yet Draco knew it had teeth and claws and a hard skin and it was significantly bigger than him.

“Good afternoon, Mircilius” Remus greeted.

“Hhhhhhh” said the creature.

“Always good to see you. Or not see you, but you know what I mean.”

“HhhhhhHhh hh”

“Right here” Sirius said, his left hand still on Draco’s shoulder. He waved with the other one. “These are turbulent times, full of action.”

“hhHhhhhhhhhh”

“I was wondering, if it is not too much of an imposition, if we could make use of your garden. Just going through” assured Remus, as if he were knocking on a neighbour’s door asking for a cup of sugar.

“hhhhh h h h” said the creature as it slowly moved aside and revealed a door incongruously stuck in the middle of the slope that made the bed of the river. Sirius pushed Draco into motion. Remus was already climbing to get to the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco thought that whatever passed for the creature’s head was turned North almost as if it were sniffing something.

“Some new wizards over there” said Sirius. “Draco mentioned- how many did you say?”

“Ten.”

“Ten. This is Draco, by the way. Good lad. Anyway, ten Ministry wizards in Hogwarts and now in Hogsmeade too.”

“Hhhhhhh!!!”

“Right you are. Have a good day Mircilius” agreed Sirius.

“Thanks again” said Remus as he opened the door and Draco was pushed through, followed right away by Sirius. Remus closed the door behind the three of them.

“What.” Draco didn’t even ask, it was more of a pleading.

“No idea” Sirius explained in a very understanding tone. The hand on the shoulder had now become a full arm thrown over Draco’s neck. “We discovered it years ago, when we were students, and since it didn’t eat us we gave him a name. Remus reckons that it is a sick boggart.”

Oh.

The garden was in fact a dark cave covered in mushrooms. But it obviously was something else because after half an hour walking down a tunnel, they emerged at the foot of some mountains miles away from Hogwarts.

“Well, we didn’t start a revolution, but we were not idle when we were your age” said Sirius who was becoming less and less scary the more he talked. Draco couldn’t decide whether sharing blood with this man was a good thing or not. “We explored all of Hogwarts and its secrets. They called us The Marauders.”

“No one called us that besides ourselves” pointed Remus.

“Dammit, Remus! Don’t ruin the dramatic narrative!” He looked at Draco, his left arm still thrown over his shoulders. “Would you believe the man would just wear sweaters and cardigans? I had to force the long coat on him. You have to wear something with zing when you are on the run.”

“It does look very badass” Draco agreed. It really did.

So Draco was not murdered that day, and neither did he freeze or starve and he was not captured and dragged back home. He might have been adopted by two wanted criminals, he wasn’t sure, but that was all right.  

***

Sirius and Remus took Draco to the shadiest, seediest, creepiest, most sinister local of the entirety of Great Britain. He did not dare say of Europe, though, because who knew what you could find in the Continent. It was a place that made Knocturn Alley look like a pleasant promenade with ambience, which Draco now realized is exactly what it was. Knocturn Alley was not the place of dark wizards, this inn right here was.

While Sirius had been chirpy with Mircilius, the horror with no face or shape, here he was tense and grew silent, which Draco hadn’t thought was possible. They stopped before entering the inn and ruffled around their pockets in search of something that would cover Draco’s characteristic hair. When they couldn’t come with anything, Remus made a narrow braid on each side of his hair and Sirius told him to open up the jacket and lean against him and put on a dazed look, as if he were drunk or under a heavy will-annulling spell which was exactly the impression they wanted to give. Sirius put a chain around his own neck and painted some runes on his cheeks and breastbone and then on Draco’s.

“If anyone asks, don’t answer because you are a swan” Sirius said.

There were werewolves in there. Actual werewolves that looked the part, except now Remus suddenly looked the part, too. Tall and sharp and savage followed by his two familiars walking in human form. There was a trio of vampires in a corner, keeping well away from the rowdy party of half-trolls planted in the middle of the inn. There was hags and nags and people with black teeth and nails that looked like birds and Draco had no idea what they were.

Draco was good. Rather than staring in horror at all of them and whimpering, he let his gaze float around, as if he had no idea where he was and not a single care about it. Maybe if he pretended hard enough, it would be real.

They had dinner down there. Sirius whispered in his ear that you could not dine in your room in this kind of places. Well, you could, Remus amended, but hiding in your room only attracted attention and gave the impression of fear, weakness. So they stayed in the ground floor and ate whatever it was they had put in front of them. Beans, maybe. Draco had decided it was red beans and he ate them quickly, while they were hot and without thinking too much about the strange flavour. Sirius and Remus did the same.

The room upstairs was fine. That is, Draco had been half expecting the walls to be painted in blood, but they were not. Sirius locked the door and Remus dragged the two beds away from the wall, so nothing could crawl down and get in the bed. Draco suspected he was not talking about bugs.

And then, and then! They pointed at the biggest and fluffiest bed and said that’s where Draco was going to sleep. Remus would take the one closest to the window and Sirius was going to sleep on the floor by the door.

“What? No!” Draco was appalled. This nice, slightly mental, people had helped him so much already. “You cant’ sleep on the floor like a dog.”

“Ohohoho! Watch me!”

He watched. He suspected Sirius relished the opportunity to make that joke. He certainly wagged his tail a lot. Draco went to bed with the comforting certainty that no day _ever_ would be as weird and full of surprises as this one, the day he broke his father’s chain.

***

Someone tried to enter the room during the night.

“Oh, I am sorry” said a soft voice from the floor, remarkably calm for someone who had Sirius’ jaws around his neck.

“We thought you would be done with the fay boy by now” explained a second nasal voice from somewhere within the cage of Remus’ arms. There was some weak struggling. “Just wanted to eat him, is all.”

“Out” growled Remus. Draco had goosebumps in his arms.

A third figure appeared in the door. No one had heard it, (him?) get there.

“Mauritius, what are you-? Oh, I am so sorry” he said, in the light and polite tone with which one would talk of a mischievous little dog. He was the only one standing so Draco could see now that it was one of the three vampires. “You wicked rascals, you! Terribly sorry, sir, I apologize. They tried the troll liquor and forgot all of their manners.”

“I did say sorry” said the vampire under Sirius’ mouth.

“Entering bedrooms uninvited, sorry you must be Frederick!” cried the vampire “I am so embarrassed right now.”

The vampires left. Or rather, Remus took the one he had in a chokehold back to the corridor, and then grabbed the other one from under Sirius’ jaws and dragged him outside. The sober vampire kept apologising in a posh accent.

“That was so rude” said Sirius, transforming back in to human to rinse his mouth. “I can´t believe people sometimes.”

***

The riots of Hogwarts came to an abrupt halt. Not by Umbridge and her Special Operators or by Snape or McGonagall, the two most feared members of the staff. Not even by Draco’s sudden departure (if anything, he had given them extra energy).

It was Filius Flitwick. Demanding yet gentle Flitwick, who always asked the best of his students but made sure they didn’t feel bad for their failures. Flitwick, who would make the teacups dance to cheer up Ravenclaws stressed with exams and gave away candy both to good students and the ones who were struggling.

He put a stop to everything with his high pitched squeaky voice, almost unintelligible wrapped and swaddled as it was with rage and tears.

“Something that every fourth year knows, Dawlish! You were my student! You sat in my class!”

They were in the corridor of the Headmistress’ Office. Flitwick was yelling at a big man in minister official robes who looked like he wished the walls would come together and crushed him. To his left there was a witch, also in ministerial robes, sobbing uncontrollably and clutching a thick piece of wood in her hands. It looked almost like the handle of a flying broomstick.

“I taught you, didn’t I? You had Exceed Expectations in the OWLs!”

By then a curious crowd was forming. Not too close, because this was still Umbridge’s floor. But close enough to listen. No one had ever seen Flitwick lose his temper.

The witch was crying a lot. They didn’t know her, but some of the girls of the Committee for Witches Advancement were already whispering that someone should go offer her a handkerchief and some female support. Definitely the hanky. Her whole face was bloated and wet.

“Professor, I…”

“The Anchoring Principles of Summoning Charms!” Flitwick cried. “I taught you that! Oh, I should have given you a Troll grade.”

Dawlish said nothing, looking down at the muddy hem of his robe. It was a pathetic picture, the big wizard with broad shoulders chastised by the comically short professor. The subtle red around the wizard’s eyes made it all the more dramatic.

“Oh, god!” exclaimed Cho Chang, covering her mouth with her hand. Her eyes were very open. “Oh, no!”

“What? What?”

“Multiple casters of a summoning charm” she whispered. She had grown pale, her eyes fixed on the sobbing witch.

It spread quickly, in whispered questions and hurried refreshments of Charms class, all the way to the back of the crowd. The Anchoring Principles of Summoning Charms stated that: 1) A caster shall not summon two objects at once. 2) Two or more wizards shouldn’t use _Accio_ on the same object at the same time, and if they did, 2.1) they should be inside of a 45º angle. A Hufflepuff student volunteered his schoolbag and the seventh year Ravenclaws demonstrated. And, oh, yes, people nodded, they remembered. Position is key in multiple casters summons. There were horrible diagrams to study and exercises, please circle the location of the main caster and of the supporters. Dreadful thing. Very common on the written section of the OWLs and NEWTs exams.

And then they _remembered_. You had to study all this because if the two wizards were outside the angle and they had equal strength the combined force of their charms pulling in opposite directions would split the object apart. The Hufflepuff boy let them demonstrate with his bag again, and yes, the seams ripped open right away when two girls _accioed_ the bag from opposite directions. Although a simple _reparo_ fixed it.

None of this deserved such a reprimand on Flitwick’s part. If it weren’t because they were Special Operators standing on the corridor to Umbridge’s office holding what looked (pending confirmation by a qualified Quidditch fan) like part of the handle of a Firebolt.

***

It had been an accident. Harry had been spotted in a town east of Carlisle. They had given chase and he had run, jumping to his Firebolt.

He was so close! Just within casting distance. But of course the Firebolt was a powerful broom and could put quite a lot of height and distance in seconds, so they had to act and they had to be quick before they lost the window of opportunity.

The broom had a lot of potency. Or perhaps it was the boy himself, pushing and struggling to get away. Either way, it was slipping, sliding away from the summoning charm. If it got beyond a certain distance, then it would shake the spell off completely. 

Dawlish cast it again. And again and again and again for good measure. The other Special Operators joined him. They had their orders, from the Minister and from Umbridge. He could not get away. Potter had to be captured.

The broom cracked and split in five different parts, flying to the summoners.

And Harry fell from the sky.

***

McGonagall called for an emergency meeting in the professor’s lounge.

Severus didn’t want to go. He wanted to walk into the lake and drown.

He saw why McGonagall had called the meeting, though. She didn’t want any of them to be alone. Even Hagrid and Trelawney were there, even though the latter had been expelled from Hogwarts. (The Witches had invited her back in, poor little sad woman with nowhere to go).

Umbridge would be gone soon. Dumbledore had never had riots in the School. No students had escaped during his tenure and if they did (because there always was someone trying to sneak to Hogsmeade) they had been brought back in one piece.

The idiots in the Special Operations reported to her. It was _her_ failure. Nothing the Ministry did or said could keep her in the post for long.

None of this changed the fact that Harry was lost.

Severus sat on an armchair, blind and deaf, wishing he could turn himself into the stone students thought he was made of. If he were a piece of rock, he wouldn’t have to feel anything. There would be no regret. He envied Binns now, not only a ghost but absent minded, oblivious and uncaring.

Sprout was standing by the window, looking at the students gathered in the Quidditch court. The Slytherins had gotten a copy of the official report and the girls had gone to talk to the sobbing witch (much less sympathy for her now). They had the altitude and estimated speed and were now replicating the incident under the direction of a few Ravenclaws. Dropping students to see if someone managed to cast a spell before they were caught by the Feather Fall charm ten meters above the ground. They were very methodical about it.

Madam Pomfrey served them all a Restorative potion. McGonagall brought a bottle of whisky and they toasted in silence. There were no words.

Severus remained in the armchair, nursing the glass between his hands with the white noise of the student’s voices outside buzzing in his ears. Ridiculously and illogically, all he could think of was the time he taught Harry, still too short to reach a table, how to hold a knife and cut ingredients. He had been oh so very careful with the blade.

There was, Severus could feel, a certain sense of expectation in the room. They had all been together in mourning once, when Ginevra Weasley disappeared, taken by the monster. And that very same night her brother and Harry had performed the miracle and returned with her alive. Perhaps it would happen again. Perhaps the red-haired kid would enter the room saying he just saw Harry, he actually never left Hogwarts.

“It’s possible” informed Sprout from her post at the window. Her voice didn’t sound very hopeful, though. But it was possible. The students had done it. Quick _Feather Falls_ and _Levitacorpus_ and _Arresto Momentum_ that proved someone could survive the fall. But no one, not even Granger, managed to do it until after the tenth attempt.

***

Harry’s body hadn’t been retrieved yet, which the Ministry insisted was A Good Sign. They also hadn’t retrieved the whole broomstick, though, as its pieces were scattered over a considerably big expanse of terrain.

Bragge had stayed at the site of the crash. Didn’t dare showing her face in Hogwarts. Didn’t dare reporting back to Umbridge for fear of that self-satisfied expression. Bragge had a promising career in the Ministry and hexing her superior would put a dampener on it.

She spent the night on the floor, with her wand raised and the cold blue light of a _Lumos_ as her only company. She found seventeen small twigs belonging to the broom, three knuts, two sickles and a cotton t-shirt tangled in the branches of a willow.

She did not find Harry’s body and she was secretly grateful.

***

They rose early in the morning, just as the sun was starting to show. Despite the early hour, there was quite a lot of people downstairs. One of them, a one eyed witch, was eating breakfast noisily and enjoying the attention of the other customers. She had just come from London with fresh news.

“Did what You-Know-Who couldn’t, that Fudge man” she cackled and slurped on her beer.

“I don’t believe it” said one of the werewolves. A man with big white sideburns.

“I ain’t lying.”

“You may not be lying, Martha, but you ain’t saying the truth either.”

“Oh, you boiling sore pile of…

The witch cursed the sceptical man for a while. She drank again from her beer and ate a sausage while the rest debated the likelihood of her news.

“Ah, good morning sir” said the vampire from last night coming to their table. “Please, allow me to apologize once again for my companion’s behaviour. I am _desolated_ , I assure you. Not like them at all. I am sure once they wake up, they are going to be terribly ashamed.”

“I would hope so” said Remus, waving to the house-elf to come bring them breakfast. He wasn’t cold or impolite, but there wasn’t any of his warmth either. He sounded… he sounded like power and strength. “What has everyone so agitated?”

“Oh, un- _be_ lievable news” answered the vampire, relishing each syllable as if it were a treat. Draco thought he spoke like Quirrell would have liked to sound. “I am sure there is much exaggeration in it.”

“That Fudge couldn’t find his own arse with both hands, a map, a candle, and all the help from his little bootlickers at the Ministry” said a man with snake skin by the bar. There was a chorus of agreement to the general inefficiency and lack of brains or guts of the Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge. It was not unlike some of the things Draco had heard at home, although here the lexicon had more flavour. 

“Next he will be taking over Hogwarts and Dumbledore himself, oi.” This elicited some laughs and a few curses to Dumbledore.

“And what is our good Minister’s latest feat?” asked Remus. By his side, Sirius pretended not to understand the conversation.

“Only that he has killed Harry Potter, or rather, that he had Harry Potter killed” answered the vampire accepting a cup of tea. Draco whimpered in his own.

“Cornelius Fudge has killed Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived?” Remus was so unnaturally calm that it was easy to take his words for sarcasm, while in fact the three of them felt as if their hearts and stomachs had switched places.

“Ex _act_ ly. You see why people are hard pressed to entertain the notion.”

***

They did not believe it during breakfast and they did not believe it during the walk down to the lake to catch a boat. They did not believe it in the ride there, listening to the witches talk of wizards flying in and out of Hogwarts and the Ministry sending away a reporter from _The Prophet_. They did not believe it in the next inn, waiting in line to floo to another pub in Glasgow.

They did not believe it. But through the day they learned more details. A flying accident. Five wizards against one. Been looking for the broom and the corpse and people selling broom twigs already, certified to be from the one Harry Potter was riding when he fell. The Ministry refused to comment.

All Remus said was that he had been right and Harry wasn’t in Hogwarts and that since it took quite a lot of magic and brains to get out of the school, he was certain he had escaped the encounter with the Ministry, too.

They agreed, what else could they say? But later, as they were waiting to catch a carriage in the square, Draco overheard Sirius asking quietly and Remus answering that he just couldn’t afford to think anything else because if he did he would scream until the end of the Earth.

No wonder Harry was so weird. Draco supposed you had to walk through the world differently when you had such strong love behind you. Draco didn’t think that his parents loved him. Oh, certainly, they loved the idea of him, the beautiful silver prince. But love Draco? Draco the individual outside the script, the one with failings? He didn’t think so.

***

The Board of Governors voted five to two for Umbridge’s suspension at the end of the school year and Dumbledore’s reappointment. It wasn’t much of a victory. She still had a few weeks to burn the school if she wanted, enough days to make her believe that she could still salvage the situation if she was ruthless enough. At the very least, she could scar the muggleborns for life.

She had come to destroy Harry Potter and she had succeeded, in a way. _The Prophet_ blamed Dumbledore, Harry, and the student bacchanalia, as they called it, for what had happened. _The Quibbler_ reprinted Harry’s interview and added a special feature of what exactly was going on in Hogwarts and what the students wanted. Two Ravenclaws wrote the text and Suruchi edited it. All the photos featured the students looking sweet and non-threatening because Suruchi understood very well how they were going to be judged.

 _Witch Weekly_ attempted to be neutral and although it did not blame the Ministry directly, its issue on Harry focused heavily on all the boy’s misfortunes and hardships that would push him to take such a risk. They certainly didn’t blame him. It was all beautifully tragic (Byronic, said Suruchi’s squib cousin, the one studying film theory) and many a witch cut the photographs included.

***

The Ministry examiners came to give the OWLs and NEWTs exams in early May, three weeks before the scheduled time. Everybody expected the results to be catastrophic, considering many students hadn’t set a foot on certain classrooms in weeks. Yet it looked like they would be some of the best to date, even though the writing section hadn’t yet been graded.

It was all thanks to the Interhouse Solidarity Party and its army of volunteer tutors. _Of course_ there was such a thing, meeting every day from five to seven in the empty classrooms of the fourth floor and all day outside (weather permitting) on Sundays. The riots hadn’t really stopped, they merely mutated. And when they heard of Umbridge’s petty change of the date of the exams, they reacted accordingly.  

They, (the parents, _The Prophet_ ) made it sound like it was just a bunch of teenager girls exposing themselves and a few entitled kids wanting to break the rules. But it was more than that. It was more than opposing Umbridge’s regime, even. It was about justice in an unfair system. And as soon as they had realized that the house rivalry and the point system was just a tool to keep them in line, it had been only natural not only to defy the point penalties and the detentions but to start working together _all the time_ , like a particular slap in the face of the Founders. Why shouldn’t a Slytherin get along with a Hufflepuff?

The sixth years helped the fifth years with the OWLs, lending notes and cards and making mock exams. They, plus the third and fourth years, helped the seventh years in all they could. Fetching books and sandwiches, occasionally providing targets for spells, revising with them and asking the questions in the flashcards and practicing and practicing and practicing. Yes they had missed some lessons, but they had hours of intense study and dedicated tutors.

 _Unafraid of hard work_ is what they say about Hufflepuffs. Which sounds so lovely and sweet. The hard working house where you will be accepted even if you have no brains or brawn or talent as long as you are willing to work. So nice of them!

Until a Hufflepuff decides you _will_ master the Vanishing Spell and makes you practice every waking moment of your existence. You will finally get it right on the five hundredth and seventy-fourth casting attempt, when you are a sobbing sweating mess kneeling on the floor. _Then_ you will discover that Hufflepuffs are demented and despite your tears and the fact that it is hours after dinner time they will say “again” and make you do it once more and practice until you get it right every single time.  

(To answer the previous question, Slytherins and Hufflepuffs shouldn’t be friends because cunning and hard work is the main requirement when planning a bank strongbox theft or a prison break).

***

As usual, the owls came with the mail during breakfast in the Great Hall. A common brown owl like the ones you could request in a tavern or a Magic Post Office dropped a letter for Hermione before snatching a piece of sausage and flying away.

She took the letter and opened it with the curious and wary expression everyone had these days when dealing with the post. She started to cry before she could read the second line. Not a pretty cry, either, but the big sobs that clutter in the throat and don’t let you breathe, her tears as big as marbles.

All the Gryffindor table was staring at her. Everybody agreed that she was brilliant but she was also strong! She had a sort of stony courage. She had stared down Umbridge and her minions and she did not flinch. To see her cry like this now, in public, was most upsetting.

Umbridge noticed and came at her in a quick pace that was not exactly running. She knew she only had just a few more days as Headmistress and she was growing desperate. She snatched the letter from Hermione’s hands and gave detention to Ron when he rose from the table with an indignant “Hey!” not that detention mattered, Umbridge gave it out of habit.

Hermione had her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Umbridge stood next to her, in her matching sky-blue jacket and skirt, reading the letter. She had a red rash that had taken over the left side of her face, and no matter how dutifully she washed with the rosebloom soap each night and applied the honey butter cream, it was getting worse and worse. Probably because someone had poisoned all of her toiletries.

“Is there a problem, Headmistress?” Minerva McGonagall was now at the table, too. Unlike Umbridge’s, her dark outfit was perfectly clean and pressed.

Umbridge read the letter once more with a deep frown before chirpily saying that no, everything was fine and Granger had detention for making a scene during breakfast.

Hermione said she was sorry and would not happen again in a broken voice. Umbridge dropped the letter over the eggs and returned to her seat just as the hem of her jacket was starting to smoke and Dean Thomas elbowed Seamus Finnigan to put his wand away (or learn how to do it with the wand under the table already, dammit).

***

“Oh, and I see you have mail, too” Umbridge snapped. She was looking for any transgressions from the faculty body, hoping to get enough evidence accumulated that would get them sacked. Even if she didn’t continue as Headmistress she still hoped to show _them_ , and not her, as the guilty party in the school’s revolt. They and their complicit permissiveness. So far, she had built a meter long report on all of them, including Professor Binns, even though technically he wasn’t active part of the staff. He certainly wasn’t getting paid.

Severus said nothing as he finished opening the little package he had received. His long fingers drawing the string delicately and pushing the paper away to uncover a small handful of plants tied together with a piece of shoelace.

“I don’t recall approving the budget for those” Umbridge said, already taking note “Really, the expenditures in this school.”

“A Master Potioner must always strive to build a collection of ingredients as complete as possible” Severus answered smoothly as he lifted a single snowdrop from the middle of the nettle and dandelion leaves. “Fear not, these I purchased myself.”

Most disturbingly Severus was smiling faintly as he said that.

***

Ron picked up the letter as he put his arm over Hermione’s shoulder. He looked at it with a frown. It was a short letter from her parents, saying that they would have to travel a lot for work in the next few months and wouldn’t be able to see her, but they loved her very much and sent their best wishes.

Perhaps Hermione had been looking forward to seeing them, but back in Christmas she had already arranged to spend the summer at the Burrow. Maybe she had changed her mind in between?

Hermione hadn’t told another soul. She had only spoken with Harry because _he_ had guessed and he had understood. He had looked at her and nodded silently as Hermione explained that she wasn’t just a muggleborn witch but _the_ muggleborn witch. The most brilliant student at Hogwarts in decades. There were others halfbloods and muggleborns, but yes, when they came, Hermione would be one of the first targets.

So during summer break, with the news of Voldemort’s return fresh, she had taken her parents memories and sent them into hiding. _That_ was how much Hermione believed Harry when he said Voldemort was back. Enough to prepare for her family being attacked and for her not surviving the war. She had decided that no children was better than the memory of the child you lost, and perhaps it was not her place to do it, but it was done now and she slept better knowing she could face whatever the world threw at her. She didn’t have to be scared for what would happen to the ones she left at home.

Only Harry had known that. And it was Harry’s handwriting, the neat elegant one he used when writing letters, not the lazy squiggles he made in class.

Harry was alive and sent his best wishes. How could she not cry?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading the books as a teen I always wondered how could Hermione not miss her parents and spend so much time in the Burrow. I like this explanation.  
> "Nessun Dorma" the aria that Harry listens means "None shall sleep" hehehehe.  
> I don't think it is evident, but Sirius and Remus don't have wands with them. Given how they escaped from Azkaban I don't see how they could have gottem them back.


	10. The begining of adulthood

Harry was starting to think that maybe he had been cursed with immortality and later in life he would be bemoaning the inevitable deaths of all his loved ones as he saw them all grow old and die, one by one. The Boy Who Lived _indeed_. A killing curse at age one, another at age fourteen (almost fifteen, not that it mattered) and now a fall from two hundred meters and not even bruises to show.

He didn’t even know how he had done it. He had fallen. He didn’t have time to get his wand out, not that it would have helped since he hardly knew what spell he could cast to stop the fall. _He had fallen_. And then he had gotten up on trembling knees and shaken the grass from his trousers, unscathed. The wand on the back pocket and the Walkman on his waist perfectly intact.

The grass in there was thick, but not so thick that it could break the fall. Thick enough, though, to hide the ripples in the earth, thirty meters in diameter, that extended from the place where he had crashed.

Harry shook his head, adjusted his glasses, and walked away humming softly to himself.

***

Nettles’ leaves, safe to touch as long as you hold your breath, to symbol life and death and protection, which felt rather adequate given current events. Dandelions, of course, in addition to being edible and a good diuretic, meant overcoming hardships (such as escaping the school you had been forced to go and surviving a fall, if you needed an example). And snowdrop, actual name _galanthus_ , the milk flower which acted as an antidote to Circe’s poison, to signal hope.

All together they said to have hope, as all perils had been overcome. More or less. He wasn’t sure about the exact distribution, but Harry was confident that the message would be understood despite the limitations. Sending a message, actually, that could only come from him, was all the situation required.

The plants had the advantage of being available in any field and country road, which was rather more convenient than going to a shop and buying a bag of lily’s seeds to say that he was alive. He had lost all of his money in the crash, anyway. And his spare clothes, the jumper, the backpack with supplies. He still had a comb, though. The single belonging he had found when hurriedly leaving the place. It was stupid because his hair was uncombable and he didn’t know why he had decided to take it with him. Perhaps because so far it was the only comb he hadn’t broken. Such a good, brave, comb deserved to accompany him in his adventure.

He walked cross country to the second group of lights he found. The first was such an obvious place to seek refuge he discarded it immediately. He had no idea if crash survivals were a common thing with wizards, but they probably were. He remembered Neville saying that’s how they discovered he was not a squib after all. So if someone expected him to survive the fall, of course they would look in the closest settlement. Harry stood clear of that one and walked to the next village.

He had had to go to a public library to get some pen and paper with which to write. And then he didn’t even have a knut to get an owl, not that he felt like showing his face in a wizarding pub to request one. So he had to go and stand in an uninhabited area and wait until he found a couple of owls trusting enough to come to him and convinced them to _please_ , if they were so kind, carry these messages for him.

All they asked in return was for him to scratch them between the ears, which he was happy to do and in fact would have done even if they refused.

It wasn’t until much later that Harry thought that perhaps this was unusual behaviour for common owls. No one had ever explained in Care of Magical Creatures whether wizards used a special magical breed of owls or not. It was all beasts with fangs and claws and stings.

Going home would be harder now. He had lost his broom and he had learned that the Ministry wasn’t playing around. He would have to be more cautious from now on.

***

Bragge apparated with a loud pop in the moor and the hem of her robe instantly caught in the heather and ripped. She had been officially reprimanded and relegated to the most miserable legwork of the office because, as she had suspected, calling your boss a trollhead (Dawlish) and setting on fire your boss’ boss’ shoes (Umbridge) was not well received in the Ministry. At least that funny Auror, Tonks, came by her desk and invited her for a pint later in the pub, which was very nice because usually Aurors didn’t even look at them.

So Bragge would rather be done with this soon, pop back to London and get a good pint and a friendly ear to commiserate. She really didn’t know what was wrong with the world any more, but she had not come to the Ministry to be hunting down teenagers. She had ideals. It had all been about protecting muggles from magic misuses and maybe one day, if she passed the physical exams, joining the Aurors.

For now, she was back to the lowest assignments. Currently checking for a case of underage magic in the middle of nowhere.

No, really, either they had given her the directions wrong (wouldn’t put it past them) or… Someone had come to the moors in north York, performed a conjuration and then left, presumably accompanied by an adult that had not been present for the previous conjuration. They information was so vague they didn’t even a full name of the offender.

Halfway up the short hill there was a simple stone cottage. Bragge walked over there, wand high in her right hand and the lower part of her robes folded on her left arm. She did not make a dignified figure and she should probably invest on some nice trousers or leggings to wear under the robes.

After she knocked on the door, she was greeted by a middle age, closer to old, man with a ridiculous beard. It wasn’t the longest nor the bushiest beard Bragged had ever seen (she had gone to Hogwarts, she had met Hagrid, all right?) but there was something about it that attracted attention. Perhaps that there was much more beard than face and the fact that it originated so high on the cheek.

“Ah, a tourist!” said the owner of the beard. “Are you lost, dear? Were you hiking?”

“I, uh, I…” Was this a muggle? Bragge didn’t know.

The man smiled under the beard and invited her in. Bragge stepped in to the cottage dazed. It was one of the traditional single room cottages with the kitchen and the bedroom all in the same space.

“I was just preparing supper” the old man informed her, going back to the little kitchen and singing softly while he stirred something hot and spicy in the pot. Bragge inspected the room quickly while the man had his back turned to her, looking for any clues as to his magical status, which seemed to be null.

“Would you like some stew? It has potatoes!” he offered, inordinately pleased at the addition of potatoes to his dinner. Bragge realized she hadn’t caught his name.

“No, that’s all right, Mister…”

“Ah! Bread!” he exclaimed as he opened a kitchen cabinet which contained a loaf of bread and, inexplicably, a toothbrush with a frog-shaped handle. “I wonder if there is also wine. It is a bit chilly outside don’t you think? A glass would do us good. Red wine, I think.”

“Yes, er, actually no, thank you, not for me. I’m… I was hiking, yes, hiking with my cousins. But I think I may be a bit behind. Say, you hadn’t seen any children around?”

“Children?”

“More like teenagers, perhaps.”

The man stopped to ponder, tugging at his beard with gusto and biting on his lower lip.

“You know, I don’t think I have seen anyone.” He hooked a grey curl on his finger. “But I did hear some noise a while ago. Didn’t think much of it. The McAllister kids are always running around these hills.”

“That must had been them, thank you” Bragge headed to the door. “Did you know what they were saying by any chance?”

The man thought again. For a second, his eyes shone green and impish with the reflection of the fire.

“Typical children stuff. Something about a misplaced nargle, I think.”

Oh, dear, Bragge’s day was going to be long. She thanked him and made to leave, although she stayed some more minutes while the man insisted in searching for some wine and a windbreaker to give her. It was still a bit cold this year, spring barely making itself known yet. There was no wine but he did find the raincoats, one green and one yellow, in between a jar of honey and two onions. Considering he lived in such a little house, he didn’t seem to have the faintest idea of what he kept on the cabinets.

Bragge left, zipping the yellow windbreaker, thinking that she would patrol a bit around the hill and if she didn’t find any teenagers within the hour, she would call it a night.

Whatever a nargle was, the people from the Magical Creatures Department could deal with it.

***

Did you know that if an underage witch or wizard performs magic while in the company of other wizards, the Ministry’s imposed Trace isn’t activated? They wouldn’t have time for anything else if it weren’t so.

Harry had discovered this rule last year although he had only just realized its full potential. It explained why no one came to his rescue when he was in that graveyard, and why there was no record of the couple of good charms he had managed to perform there, which would have given some credibility to his statement that Voldemort had returned.  

Nope. No record. You did magic in front of an adult, the Trace assumed the adult would know how to deal with it as long as they weren’t muggles.

Awareness on the adult’s part that you were doing magic wasn’t a requisite, either. Fancy that.

Harry thought that if his father were alive, if he could see him, he would be quite proud. Harry felt proud!  Which was a new feeling regarding magic. Also, although he had not managed to produce any wine, he did have honey and plenty of bread, breakfast tomorrow was assured. 

***

It was a simple trick, really. It took time and focus, but to Harry it was so much easier than any other magic.

First, he chose a place. Somewhere where the terrain was even and there was no muggles around. It was not strictly necessary, but it was a good idea to walk around a square and get a sense of the space.

Then he stepped aside and closed his eyes. He breathed slowly and deeply. He found a point of calm, a point of balance. Like that perfect moment before leaning over his broom and dashing through the wards out of Hogwarts.

Then, [the music](https://youtu.be/afzmwAKUppU?t=17). A charming accented voice with a background of violins that softly sets the stage. Harry didn’t move, not yet, not until the heavy percussion of cutlery began to mark the rhythm. Then, yes, take three steps to the right and slide to the left. Three steps and slide, repeat and turn and by then the ground would be transforming and his next steps would sound harder and Harry would be dancing over a wooden floorboard platform in the middle of nowhere.

The walls came with the choir. Brick or stone, depending on the occasions, rising to the music and the dance and acquiring paint while the song went on. The curtains fell down as the high female voices chanted up. The bass lines of the choir brought the furniture. Wooden tables and chairs and the doorframes and Harry kept dancing and he never bumped into them, not even once. He knew the house distribution even if the house was different each time.

At the end of the chorus, the roof fell over the structure with a soft “thud”. But Harry didn’t look up to the rafters that were quickly arranging and settling by themselves. Head down, he mimicked the sad tale of the servants who were not serving, singing dramatically if not quite with the Gallic accent. It was a moment of quiet before his body jumped again with the music and Mrs. Potts’ kind voice filled the kitchen cabinets. The spoons circled and flew around Harry before taking their place in the drawers, the forks marched in military formation.

Harry danced and danced and turned and was not at all surprised that he was conjuring a furnished house out of thin air. The best part was at the end, when all the voices came together and Harry created in quick succession the bed, the mattress, the sheets, and on two glorious occasions a couch and a fireplace. The chairs ran to take their positions, the table jumped to let a carpet slide below. There was a sense of rush to get the smaller details. A glass in the bathroom with a red toothbrush, paper towels in the kitchen, even a pair of pyjamas and slippers next to the bed.

It was at this time that the cabinets started to produce food. Usually behind the closed doors so Harry never knew what he would find until he went to look. But it was always something good.

It had to be, with that song, didn’t it? It had to be the very best food.

The knock came, as usual, barely a few minutes after the song ended. Harry had to quickly shove away an animated pair of saltshakers, who were dancing the twist by themselves, before passing a hand over his face to put on a disguise and opening the door to the friendly Special Operator of the night alerted to some underage magic. If it was the tired woman again, the one with the freckles, Harry would insist she got some dinner with him. She really looked very tired and like this was not her best week.

***

Harry now had a rather nice green windbreaker and a small backpack in which he could put the jar of honey and bread. He also had some muggle money because he found a charm of magpies and after greeting them all they decided to bring Harry something. Some coins, but also a few bills, plus three can’s tabs, one of them blue.

Animals were awesome.

(Yet, for all Harry liked animals he knew very little of them. He had yet to realize that their behaviour with him was not normal. That animals steer clear of human contact).

With this money, Harry was able to buy a bus ticket that left him a day and half away from home. He didn’t mind walking. He even went a bit cross country and saw a few other animals, a fox and a couple of rabbits and a deer who came close and let himself be petted. The deer licked Harry’s elbow before wandering away. Harry slept in an old mill and rose early to do the last trek home.

He was getting back home. Harry’s palms were sweaty and his heart started beating fast. He had a tic in his eye. He just couldn’t believe he was so close, even if he understood that he couldn’t stay, that they would find him there, just seeing the familiar road did something in his chest.

He needed to see it. He knew it was dangerous and probably stupid. But he needed to see the place where he had been happy. Harry may or may not be on the beginning stages of a transformation into an unholy immortal creature that one day would burn the world. He needed to remind himself that there had been a time of innocence and happiness and sun. He needed to see something that told him that it was not a destiny but a choice, always a choice.

And then a figure came across his path as he left the trail behind.

“And where do you think you are going?”

Not home, apparently. Harry did not get to the cottage.

***

They were going East, to the place where Remus and Harry used to live. Remus thought Harry might be there and Sirius hadn’t contradicted him in a single thing since, well, since they heard.

But first came the question. Draco had been expecting it earlier, to be honest. It was one thing to help him out of the forest when the Special Operators and his father were nearby, it was another to keep Draco around the rest of the time. 

So… _Was there anyone with whom Draco wanted to be?_

Draco should be safe. They could take him wherever he wanted. They said that the trip was too dangerous. That they were wanted men.

Draco didn’t say he wanted to stay with them, because that would be _pathetic_. But he did say that it would also be dangerous for Harry, wouldn’t it? So they didn’t have to send him away.

(Please, even if they didn’t find Harry, please don’t make him go).

Sirius looked at Remus and shrugged as if silently agreeing with his logic.

“But do you have any relatives, anyone with whom you would like to stay?” asked Remus. “What about godparents?”

“There is Aunt Insidia” Draco said reluctantly, he only answered because he was too proud to beg, to show any need. “She is my godmother.”

Again, Sirius and Remus shared a look.

“Not Insidia Malfoy?”

“Yes. She is my father’s aunt or great-aunt, I think. He insisted on her being my godmother.”

“She must be well over a hundred years now” guessed Sirius.

“Not to mention a horrible person” added Remus, which was a surprise because he seemed to always be polite.

“Horrible, yes. Very close to my mother” Sirius agreed.

“I don’t think you should go with her, Draco” Remus said almost chastising. When, excuse him, but _he_ was the one who wanted to send Draco away. Of course Draco didn’t want to go live with the demented viper, and she would send him right back with his father in any case and he did not want to go back.

“What?” Remus seemed very surprised. “What- No- Oh, Draco, dear, no, no, no. I meant, _we are wanted criminals_. You are too young, you should be in a proper house with a family. It is not right for us to drag you around, putting you in danger.”

Oh, so it wasn’t about getting rid of Draco, but about being _noble_ and offering him an out. He should have guessed it, they were old Gryffindors.

“Do you not know who my family is?” asked Draco very seriously. Perhaps they point had passed right over their heads. “They are _deatheaters_.” Draco said the word with far more teeth that it was required.

Remus snorted and Sirius barked a laugh. All right, then. They certainly couldn’t be worse than that. 

It was that simple. Sirius laughed again and patted Draco on the back affectionately.

“So who is your godfather?” asked Sirius later, as they sat in a cart taking them from Durham to York. The three goblins travelling with them had alighted at the last stop and the only other occupant was a snoring half troll.

“Nott.” Answered Draco. “Well, he plays the part, sometimes. He is very good friends with my father.”

“But it is not him?”

“No, Maman insisted on choosing a cousin of hers, Regulus.”

Regulus Black, who came to the christening gloriously drunk and said his gift for Draco was that he wished him a good family. Lucius had been furious, but less so because he got to choose the godmother and so he was able to pass over Bella. In any case, Regulus got himself killed soon after. So…

What Sirius got out of this story was that _obviously_ he was Draco’s godfather now, having inherited the responsibility from his deceased brother. He poked Remus in the side with his finger until the poor man awoke from his nap and Sirius informed him of his recently discovered godfathership. Remus congratulated him formally and went back to sleep. 

“Oh, this is splendid. Harry is my godson, too. You can be godsiblings if you want. Although I don’t know if that’s a thing. I will ask, don’t worry. Anyway, do you fly? Do you play Quidditch?”

“I am a seeker” said Draco, perhaps starting to see why Remus hadn’t thought them to be the best possible legal tutors. He had thrown words like “balance” and “routine” as if stability were the most sought virtue.

“Oh, just like Harry, then!” Sirius beamed. “Well, I will have to buy you a broom. A child’s first broom should come from the godfather. I also bought Harry’s, you know. I can teach you how to shave. And drink. That is very important, Draco, you have to learn how to control your drink and not to get plastered unless you want to, but you shouldn’t want to get drunk because it leads to terrible magical accidents. Why, our third cousin Taurus…”

***

Sirius was… Draco didn’t want to say “crazy” because Longbottom had made sure everyone forgot that word, and it wasn’t “insane” either. Sirius’ attitude seemed quite healthy to him.

But he was mad.

He chattered constantly and had the strangest ideas. He was excited and enraptured by the most common things. In the last pub, where they were served an abysmal dinner, Sirius declared that it was the worst omelette he had ever tasted and he did so with a smile, as if experiencing bad things could be good.

Draco quite liked him. Sirius made them stop to see a bunch of sparrows demolish a small piece of bread. So then Draco didn’t feel very self-conscious when he unconsciously stopped to listen to a street musician fumbling with his guitar. Sirius and Remus stopped with him and let him listen for as long as he wanted with not a word of complaint.

Draco was spoiled but he also wasn’t used to getting what he wanted.

Of Remus, Draco still didn’t have an opinion. He felt that he still hadn’t met the man. He had seen him briefly in the forest and on their way to that strange first inn. Nonchalant before danger and polite in all occasions, with a very target-focused mind. But since then Remus had been quiet and acting like behind a mask. A mask that said Harry wasn’t dead, he was fine, and so Remus wasn’t losing his mind with worry.

Frankly, Draco was the most stable of the three of them.

***

There was a Ford Fiesta parked in the outskirts of town, in the wide area people used to turn the cars around. Next came the narrow road that took to the cottage near the top of a small hill.

It was well past five already, no one would be using the road at this time.

The lights of the Ford Fiesta blinked twice. Remus stopped and behind him, Sirius and Draco did the same.

They took the first street to the left. A minute later they heard the engine of a car coming closer.

Twenty steps and they were between brick walls and gardens with no windows looking to this side of the street. The Ford Fiesta stopped, the engine idling, and a woman rolled down the driver’s window.

¨Did you know Freddos cost 20 p now?¨

Sirius and Draco shared a look. They did not know that. They didn’t know who or what a Freddo was and why its price was relevant. Twenty pence didn’t sound like much. Was a pence the same as a knut?

“WHAT?” Remus exclaimed. “Merlin’s beard! What is wrong with the world?”

“It’s you!” the woman said. It didn’t sound like she was accusing Remus of being the cause of everything wrong with the world, though. She was smiling as she said it. Sirius noticed she had a nice smile and reddish brown hair down to her shoulders. “Come on in.”

They got inside the car. Remus to her side and Sirius and Draco behind, their knees comically high because the car did not have much room. Draco fidgeted a bit and produced a pen, a Sudoku book and a crumpled flier from his seat.

“They had been stalking the house for the last five days” the woman said as she drove down the street.

“Teresa, I…”

“And I saw your boy two days ago.”

“What? Oh, my god. Was he all right?” The relief in Remus’ voice was like a waterfall.

“You saw Harry?” Sirius added, sounding like a thirsty man who just heard running water.

Draco didn’t speak but he exhaled and let his head drop back in the seat.

***

She drove them out of the village to a wide flat area between the trees a few miles away. There was half a stone wall that may had belonged to a chapel or a stable, so little remained it was hard to tell. In the trip there she informed them, or rather, Remus, that someone called Eddie was in London on a full scholarship and was studying design because he wanted to work on something called “animation” and she couldn’t be more proud; and Olivia was in the football team and doing well in school and had been so mad, learning that Harry had been there but she couldn’t see him. Harry was all right, too, god, how much he had grown.

All this was said in the same breath of air.

She got out of the car and indicated they should do the same. They walked past the stone wall to the edge of the trees. From there they could see the hilltop and a bit of the house emerge between the trees and the bushes. It was difficult to see the house from that far, they had made sure it would be so.

She pointed. “They have four people stationed there at all times, with a fifth one randomly moving around. And I think they put some sort of alarm? They definitely came and did something about… three years ago.”

“That would be when we got out of Azkaban” said Remus, looking back at Sirius.

“You WHAT?” The woman, Teresa, looked shaken. Her right arm was still frozen in the air where she was pointing. “Not the place with soul sucking monsters?”

“Yes.”

She lowered her arm and swallowed. “Oh, come here” she said, as she drew Remus into a hug. It was a good hug, long and tight. Precisely the kind of hug that would draw nightmares away.

They stepped back, although they were still grabbing each others arms.

“That’s not right” she said. “It’s not. Harry told me what happened… Were you there too?”

It took Sirius a few seconds to realise she was talking to him now. He said yes just as Remus said so and made some introductions, but Sirius didn’t get to hear what Remus was saying about him because the woman embraced him too and Sirius was overwhelmed by the smell of her hair and her skin and the warmth that came from her. It wasn’t sexual, although it had been a very long time since he had a woman in his arms and he was very aware of the press of her breasts and her thighs against his body. It was just being recognized as a human, being comforted.

Draco got a hug too and two loud kisses because although he hadn’t been in Azkaban, no child, yes you are a child don’t make that face, _no child_ should have to live through this.

***

There had been wizards when they took Harry. Half the village had been obliviated and the other half had quickly feigned ignorance because they were muggles, not idiots. People had been scared. Scared of the men in hoods and the power they held, scared of the silence that surrounded the cottage now. They couldn’t help noticing that the animals were avoiding it, no bird sat on the stones of the wall or perched on the roof.

People had been scared, but they remembered.   

Then two years later the men in hoods had returned and done something around the cottage. They figured it was some kind of alarm. People had specifically prohibited the kids from going nearby so of course they had taken to going there and throwing rocks and sticks and then running on their bikes a good distance before looking back. For the most part nothing happened, but a couple of times they claimed to have seen… something. Movement.

Olivia had hit a wizard with a can of coke. She knew perfectly well what she had done, but she claimed innocence and that she thought it was a wild boar and anyway if they were hiking they should wear reflective vests. Everybody knew that. What kind of normal person didn’t know that.

They hadn’t seen much of them after that and eventually the kids had grown bored with setting off the alarm. But about a week ago the men had returned. Four men and two women dressed in formal suits and wearing bright yellow reflective vests on top.

People knew by then that it was better to act as if everything were perfectly normal. They were charging them double in the pub, though.

So the villagers weren’t examining too close what the presence of these strangers meant, because answers probably carried nasty consequences. But they were making a point of being as obtrusive as possible without talking about it.

Teresa had intercepted Harry just a couple of days ago, fed him lunch and helped him get away. Since then she had been on the look out for Remus, knowing he too would come.

“He said he was planning on going to the summer house.”

“What is the summer house?”

“I haven’t the faintest. Better if I can’t tell, isn’t it?”

***

Teresa couldn’t help them more than that. Whatever money she had to spare, she had given it to Harry. But they all assured her she had done more than enough. She hugged them all and that in itself was a feast.

They left, hiding in the twilight. It wasn’t far to the next village.

Sirius had the impression that there may have been something going on between Remus and Sniv- and Snape, the way Remus talked of him. But then again, people don’t just face half a dozen Aurors to warn you and help you escape and give you whatever help they can, so maybe there was something there, too. Sirius would like to know because if for whatever reason Remus was not interested, well…

Sirius would just like to get to know her better, is all.

***

They spent the night inside the offices of the train station. Not the best place, but dry and warm enough. Draco looked around at the small dusty place and his face adopted an expression that seemed to say that he finally understood why they had insisted on sending him away to an actual house. This was not a comfortable place to spend the night. But he didn’t complain. _He didn’t complain._ And he didn’t look like he was just quietly bearing it down, either. He smiled, he joked, he looked at Sirius with a mixture of bemusement and admiration and generally looked like someone who was in love. He shone.

His nose and the point of his ears got a bit red with cold sometimes (Spring had been cancelled this year) and he had developed some red burns from the rugs and coarse beds they had slept in (Draco’s skin was ridiculously delicate) on his arms and on his cheeks. The latter was harder to see given the angry red marks Lucius Malfoy had put there. Those were just starting to fade.

Remus was reminded of a toddler who didn’t cry for his mum. When he looked at Draco, positively blooming under their hard conditions, Remus found that he really needed to brew a cup of tea, or two or three.

“So where did you go during summers?” asked Sirius yawning enormously.

“Nowhere. The cottage had multiple protections and during the first years there were… threats to Harry” answered Remus as he double-checked the windows.

“So, the summer house…?”

The summer house. Harry had realized that he had to pass him a message that if intercepted no one else could understand. Excellent thinking, well done. But he had been a tad obscure. 

The _summer_ house?

“I am not sure to what it refers” Remus admitted. “Could be a number of things. The cottage was _the house._ ”

Even though the message was meant to Remus, a code that only he could know, Sirius and Draco decided to help. Or Sirius did, and after listening to his rambling suggestions Draco took control of the conversation. Draco was smart. No to say that Sirius wasn’t, because Sirius was very intelligent. The map would never have taken form if it wasn’t for Sirius’ proficiency with charms. But intelligence is not the same as smarts, and Draco had a sharp mind that made connections quickly.

It was while he was shutting down all of Sirius’ suggestions without waiting for Remus to confirm them (to be fair, by then Sirius had taken it as a joke and was just throwing ideas to see if anything rang a bell) when Draco stopped and turned to Remus with narrowed eyes.

“You didn’t transform in that cottage, did you?”

“Oh, well thought Draco!” Sirius said while he licked the oil from a can of tuna that had made their dinner. “Could Harry had gone to, mmh, your accomplice’s?”

What gods had Remus offended that Sirius had to say those words while wriggling his eyebrows?

Remus frowned at Sirius. This was better than the “Oh. My. God. Snivelus” he had been subjected to for two months, nearly three, but just barely.

“It… it could be. He did visit that house mostly during summer months…”

But there was also an Elizabethan house in Plymouth, a museum house they had visited during their summer trips to the sea. And just a bit inland, in Exeter, there was The House that Moved which Harry found very interesting even if the house was moved by people rather than by itself. Any of them could be the summer house. How to know?

By the intake of breath and widening of eyes, Draco was having a realization.

“There was no mention of an accomplice! Nothing at all in the papers.” Exclaimed Draco. “Not even my father remarked upon it.”

His eyes moved around the room, unseeing. His pretty little Slytherin brain coming up with a list of suspects and quickly narrowing it down to less than a dozen. McGonagall was one of his tops candidates.

“I need to know: Who was it? Was it a woman?”

“Draco, I can’t tell you. As you very well observed, no one knows this person’s identity and I would like it to remain that way. It is Harry’s last shield.”

Draco nodded, understanding. He also had a combined look of dejection and relish for the puzzle. He didn’t mind not being told, but he did mind being told he couldn’t even guess. _For safety_.

“Don’t take it personally” said Sirius, speaking just as one did when in class, out of the corner of the mouth and with his eyes to the front. “He wouldn’t tell me, either. If I hadn’t learned it by accident, I dare say he wouldn’t have told me at all.”

“Oh, well, in that case I will figure it out” promised Draco.

***

They walked. There were times when they dared take a bus (muggle or wizarding). But until they knew exactly where they had to go, they walked and kept low. Remus pondered the riddle and Sirius continued his self-appointed education of Draco. In the background, Remus could hear him tell Draco all the dirty laundry of the family, every quirk, secret and perversion of the House of Black but also of all the other families associated with it. He did not have much to say of the Malfoys because they were better than others at guarding their secrets, but he did have a lot to say of the Bulstrodes and the Carrows and so, so much of the Lestranges and McMillans.

It was a nice background noise. Sirius chattering animatedly after so many years with no emotion, and Draco sounding outraged or sick or shocked or amused, but just generally sounding free. Free to talk and free to show his emotions.

What a lovely sound.

There had been a bit of a faint drizzle earlier that day, but now the sun was shining despite the clouds. White light and a dark grey sky. Harry used to stop and look at the houses when the light was like this, said it was a time for good ideas.  

Remus thought, what a peculiar way of thinking Harry had. But Harry had trusted him that he would know precisely that, that he would understand what no one else could. He had to think like Harry, then.

Harry who seemed to have quite a bit of a poet soul at times. He was so emotional that things changed around him, and colour and music escaped from his mind. He had been so sad, Severus said in the little space of his letters, so sad yet twice he had managed to cast a _patronus_. He had come to the cottage after leaving Hogwarts, the cottage he knew had been torn apart.

The romantic in Harry would wait in a meaningful place.

But then again, Harry had grown to be eminently practical. He won the Triwizard Tournament barely using magic (although Severus thought, and Remus agreed, that Crouch had something to do with it). He escaped Hogwarts in a broom and then again escaped the Special Operators. He would not cross the country to wait in a symbolic place, he would not risk himself and he would certainly not risk Remus making the trip.

Harry would go somewhere close and somewhere safe.

And just like that, he got it. Remus remembered. It was a bit like the “say friend and enter” thing.

***

MYSTERIOUS ENCOUNTERS IN YORKSHIRE

By Betty Braithwaite

_Ministry reports and witnesses’ statements account for a Most Mysterious event that occurred on the afternoon of Tuesday in South Yorkshire._

Marthia Wrigglebottom (36), a vivacious and imaginative witch, and Henry Peridwinkle (35), a promising wizard working in the Floo Network Authority and member of the Peridwinkle family, reportedly suffered a Most Unfortunate and Baleful attack in the afternoon of past Tuesday the 11th, as they went for a stroll through the most picturesque trails of the South Yorkshire.

Marthia Wrigglebottom and Henry Peridwinkle reported encountering six hooded figures who, under the limited light of the evening, seemed to be standing with wands drawn above the stirring body of a muggle man, Reginald Hopkins (42). Mr. Hopkins had already been obliviated before this reporter could get his statement.

Henry Peridwinkle, a competent and industrious young wizard, claims not to recall clearly what happened next. Marthia Wrigglebottom, an inventive and spirited half-blood witch, claims that the hooded figures inquired about their Hogwarts houses and blood status and that upon learning them casted a series of curses mostly directed to Miss Wrigglebottom.

[This newspaper reminds its readership that the account of the events may had been exaggerated].

Marthia Wrigglebottom was hit by a _Levitacorpus_ spell, while Henry Peridwinkle lost his wand due to an _Expelliarmus_. It was while he was kneeling between the bushes looking for his wand and strategically deciding his next move that he spotted A Mysterious Figure dressed in green appearing suddenly in the middle of the trail.

Neither Peridwinkle nor Wrigglebottom remember clearly the Mysterious Man’s appearance. But Henry Peridwinkle assures us that he was decidedly old and unattractive while Marthia Wrigglebottom says that she is quite certain that he was tall and most definitely not brunet.

It was at this time that the Mysterious Man asked about the events he had interrupted and about the state of the muggle. The hooded figures, according to Marthia Wrigglebottom, demanded to know his house and blood status which the man refused to provide. This elicited a cursing response that nevertheless had no effect on the man, as no spell managed to hit him. This, together with the man’s calm response asking them to please depose their wands, suggests that despite Miss Wrigglebottom’s dramatic account it may had all been a bit of a joking affair with no nefarious purpose whatsoever.  

“It was all quite nonsensical” says the collected and level-headed Henry Peridwinkle on what happened next. “He started to talk about his friend Steve while [snapping his fingers](https://youtu.be/JDaD2G9xjMc?t=22), and he seemed to think that the story was very interesting, asked if we were paying attention, but he never got to tell it.”

Mister Peridwinkle can’t recall if he had recovered his wand at this point. He says that he retired a few steps from the scene. The most sensible thing to do at the time given that the Ministry does not approve or recommend engaging in violent action. Mister Peridwinkle thus demonstrated his aplomb on tense situations and his attention to Ministry’s policies.

According to Mister Peridwinkle the Mysterious Man claimed “that another one was biting the dust” even though “no one had done anything yet, certainly not biting or chewing of any kind.” Miss Wrigglebottom, for her part, tells us that after some more finger snapping on the part of the Mysterious Man, the six hooded men “started to shake and drop to the ground and kept falling over each other. He (The Mysterious Man) pointed at the biggest one and told him that he was going to get him too, and that’s when he went flying backwards and hit the tree.”

Although Ministry officials were not able to arrest or identify these supposed hooded figures, they did manage to retrieve multiple pieces of black cloth from the nearby bushes and tree branches. Miss Wrigglebottom says that at some point “they all ended up head down and tangled in the vegetation”, whereas Henry Peridwinkle says that “they seemed to have lost all sense of balance and were unable to stay upright.” Mister Peridwinkle says that it was at this moment that he finally recovered his wand and speedily apparated away to alert official authorities of the event.

Marthia Wrigglebottom, who remained behind, helped the muggle recover and together with the Mysterious Man walked him down to the nearest village. She stayed in the company of the distressed muggle until the arrival of the Ministry wizards, brought by Mister Peridwinkle’s quick thinking.

Interrogated at the scene, Miss Wrigglebottom could not give more details of the Mysterious Man, other than he said his name was Obiwanke Nobi, which leads this reporter to believe that he might have been foreign.

***

There was a boy with long black hair sitting in a bench. He was wearing a green windbreaker and had a backpack between his feet, broken white and leather.

He was sitting, waiting, and there was something so very peaceful about the scene. As if time reduced its march and went slower, treading around him with gentle feet.

He was in Leeds. Leeds is a very interesting location, right in the middle between the North and the South, and yet there is hardly anything magical about the place. It is not like Oxford, with its apothecaries, or Manchester and its wizarding pub scene. Leeds is muggle, just as Liverpool. A normal city with its stores and sights, as cities usually possess.

Because it did not have much of a wizarding community and because for some reason it never attracted interest despite its location (maybe the centerness of it somehow pushed wizards away, maybe it was magical in an inverse way) Harry had visited it quite a few times as a child.

They had done what you do when you live in the country and go to a big city. Walk around and visit museums and do a lot of shopping. Harry supposed Remus had also been getting some important things and running adult errands, perhaps doing something in a bank, he couldn’t quite remember. All he knew is that Harry used to own a grey and orange sweater and that it was bought there. And that once, when he was seven maybe, he had seen a house with its front painted a bold yellow and Harry had thought that you could only live there during summer. How could you stay in that house during Autumn or Winter? It was so yellow!

It did not make much sense. But it is the kind of thought children have, like the time Olivia convinced him to try eating grass because if cows ate it maybe it was tasty.

The boy sat on the bench in front of the yellow house. It was funny because as they walked by most people saw simply a boy, but some others, people with funny clothes and funny names and funny things hidden in their pockets, people that rarely went to Leeds, saw something else entirely. They saw a man with a ridiculous grey beard that covered most of his face, or a man with a long curled black moustache, or a lanky fellow with straight blonde hair and a short billy-goat beard. They saw plenty of faces and no one could say if it was the boy or it was them performing that magic. Just as no one can say if Leeds is muggle or has the kind of magic that pushes other magic away.  

***

The boy didn’t know how long he would have to wait. Truth be told, he had no way of knowing that he had to wait, other than a solid faith that the news of his leaving would reach his Dad and that he would come get him. He didn’t mind waiting, though. He could listen to music and when he grew hungry, he ate a slice of bread with honey. He waited a whole day and when the night came, he left a small tower of pebbles on the bench to mark his presence and went to find somewhere to sleep.

Usually, people looking for a place to spend the night would go to a back alley (smelly, and also no cover from the elements, merely a place to be out of sight) or to a station (after a few hours someone will ask to see your ticket and kick you out) or to a homeless refuge (no idea where to find one). But Harry was fifteen (closer to sixteen now) and therefore had a youthful look.  Although he was very dishevelled he did not smell terribly bad. He did not look homeless yet.

So he walked to the University campus (blessedly situated in downtown) and found a quiet place in the library and spent the night there, the sobs of the Medicine students lulling him to sleep. He was not the smelliest nor the most dishevelled there, and he got a free lollypop, cherry flavoured.

He went back to his waiting and in the evening, he had to wait no more.      

***

“Well” said Sirius, his hands on his hips and his head craned back. “It is certainly a very yellow house”.

“Even the flower pots are yellow” pointed Draco, aghast.

“So, what now? Do we knock? Is he inside?”

“Of course not, Sirius. He is not inside. We don’t know who lives here. We will have to look around.”

They examined the front of the house for any clues. Something that wasn’t yellow, perhaps. Draco kept mumbling the things that were painted yellow (The mailbox, the door handle, the curtains!) and was not of much use. Nor that they were able to find anything.

“Perhaps we could ask if they had seen him.”

“Sirius, we are not knocking on the house. It is a muggle house and we shouldn’t disturb them.”

“I just really want to know who lives in a house like this. Who goes one day and decides to paint every single feature of the façade yellow?”

“People have strange tastes. Don’t you have a cousin that does the same with pink?”

“Calpurnia” said Draco immediately.  

“Do you think the inside will also be yellow?” Sirius went on, standing on tiptoes.

His question would go unanswered, other than by what little he could peek through the windows. Seeing as there was no clue in the front of the house, they turned around to look at the surroundings.

“Let’s ask the man in the bench” Remus decided.

“The one with the red beard?” asked Sirius, finally giving his back to the house.

“Wha- No. The gentleman with the white beard.”

“Remus, there is a redheaded fellow right there. Why would we ask the grandpa six benches over?”

“No, not him. _Him_ , in the bench across the street.”

“Exactly. And that man has a short red beard.”

“Sirius, are you quite all right? _That_ is a man on his sixties with white beard and tonsure.” Pointed Remus quiet and slow in an obvious effort not to lose his patience.

“Merlin’s beard. Is this a werewolf thing? Have you stopped seeing colours all of a sudden?” Sirius pointed at Remus, the house and the bench. “Is the house isn’t it? It has burned your pupils and now you can only see in black and white.”

“Sirius you are being nonsensical.”

“I am not the one who suddenly thinks redhead is white!”

“Not to add extra bludgers to the game” said Draco “but in _that_ bench” he pointed for emphasis to the bench directly across the street “all I see is a black haired boy.”

Sirius and Remus looked at Draco and the man in the bench.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “He kind of looks like Harry from this distance.”

***

Harry had learned enough caution not to jump towards Remus the moment he saw him. He had grown up with Severus too, after all. And he had recent proof of how one could magically change their appearance.

(Although, had he payed attention in class at any point at all during the last five years, perhaps he would have learned that what he was doing was not at all typical).

Also, Draco was there. Draco Malfoy. He didn’t know if that was an obvious sign of a trap or just the opposite.

He rose when they crossed the street towards him. He had to close his hands in to fists, his nails digging in the flesh to stop himself from running. _He would not fall into a trap_.

He allowed them to see him. Shaking away the thin glamour layer. 

“Your best friend growing up was a girl a year older than you named Olivia” said Remus. “You used to play-”

“… Jedis and knights.”

It was him.

How to describe the feeling of returning home after a long absence? It is not the sight of the place or the person, because they are often changed. It is a smell. It is a physical memory, reaching for things without thinking because your body knows where everything is supposed to be. It is the shoulders unclenching and your mind saying that here, now, is where you can finally sleep. There is no way to describe it, but you can certainly feel it.

It was an embrace, longer and tighter than the one Harry had gotten two years ago. Harry was still short, so short, he could bury his face on Remus’ chest just as when he was a child, he could close his eyes and for a minute let himself believe that everything would be all right, fool himself into thinking that his biggest problem was a math exercise. Their arms tightened against each other and Harry felt Remus kissing the top of his head. Harry was crying as he felt the world around him moving, repositioning. It had been tilted down its axis for too long and only now it was straightening back up, only now he felt like he had both feet on the ground.

When they pulled apart Sirius was conspicuously looking at the roofs on the other side of the street, his arm over Draco’s shoulders. Apparently he had thrown himself into a dissertation on chimney design.

But he hugged Harry too, his chin trembling a little bit. And later Harry shook Draco’s extended hand and pulled him into a terribly awkward half hug. (It was like Draco had no previous experience of hugging, jeez). He didn’t question Draco’s presence because despite certain people’s allegation of Harry’s obliviousness, he could be quite perceptive when it mattered.

And then, because the world doesn’t really care about your life even when there is a beautiful and emotional reunion going on, it started to rain for twenty second before upgrading to pouring and possibly a deluge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know there is no yellow house in Leeds, but there is a House That Moved in Exeter and an Elizabethan Museum House in Plymouth.  
> Dandelions, as already stated, symbolise overcoming hardships which is very much what Harry did here.  
> This is not the end of the series, but with Harry out of the school and reunited with Remus, I think it is a good place to end this part. Also if people are tired from this journey and need a break, don’t want to read a WIP anymore or want to stop reading altogether, this is a good moment to get off the train. Harry is out, Draco is out, everything will be good, just imagine that Severus will apparate there in a second and everything will be fine. In a long series like this it is good to have the option to opt-out.  
> But if you want to know more, the story continues! Many more horrible things happen with many cliffhangers, although there will also be food, music, the Weasley twins, and eventually a good ending. Thanks for coming this far! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is loved!


End file.
